Heart of Wax
by Sarapsys
Summary: Patchwork stories about Beyond Birthday and the House in A and BB's time. Incomplete and discontinued.
1. Clarity

**TLDR AN: **I know I should be finishing Aftermath, but I have all these scene snippets for the last chapter that would rather sit in the document and stare awkwardly at each other than mesh into a nice cohesive ending. So I'm letting them stew for a while and tackling this instead, as it's been simmering on the backburner for a few months now. Rating may get bumped later on for dark themes and violent references but I haven't made up my mind yet.

**RE prequels/companions: **Sequel to Sins of the Father and Under One Roof, both of which I recommend reading first, as all of the Dukes will figure prominently (though you might be able to scrape by just skimming over A-L in the Character Glossary in UOR Ch.62). This will be in much the same format as UOR, but centered around BB, A, and the events of the House before Mello and Near came along. Not sure how long yet. I'm vaguely aiming for roundabout 20, +/- 5.

**RE sociopathy/psychopathy: **Now referred to by psychologists as Antisocial Personality Disorder, though I find the term 'sociopath' rolls easier off the tongue. I've been doing some research on the subject and just wanted to throw out there that the ethics of sociopathy is a rather touchy issue, and in this story I am neither trying to portray sociopaths as subhuman or inhuman, nor condoning the antisocial attitude. I consider my portrayal of BB to be on the far sadistic end of the spectrum, and not necessarily typical of all sociopaths. Not being one myself, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of my writing. **  
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**DN and LA:BB do not belong to me.  
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* * *

_I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart has turned to wax; it has melted away within me. _

_Psalm 22:14

* * *

  
_

**1: Clarity**

The first real words his mother ever said to Beyond were not until half an hour after their first meeting since his infancy. She'd never had custody of him and had never pursued visitation rights, but she had still come to social services to pick him up—for appearances, Beyond assumed. Clearly she had never wanted him before. Not suing for custody and not taking charge of her dead ex-husband's otherwise-orphaned son were for some incomprehensible reason two entirely different levels of indifferences to Empaths, though: one a little sad but the other unforgiveable.

In the social worker's office, Meridian Davies-Birthday smiled and embraced him and said many plastic words, and he responded with more smiles and plastic words and a return of the embrace. When she hugged him, thought, Beyond could tell her warm arms and eye-crinkling smiles were as practiced as his. He had inherited her black eyes, too.

_She will be more difficult to lie to than Don was, _Beyond concluded, annoyed.

And perhaps_,_ he thought with sudden anger, perhaps she had passed on more than the clarity that Empaths lacked. Was it possible that Meridian saw the red numbers and letters, too? Was he not unique in the world after all?

Either way, she only had two more years to live. Hardly an ideal supporter for a child his age. Oh well. He'd deal with that when he got to it.

He was certain she was not an Empath, but he tested her anyway. He cried for his poor dead daddy on their way out to her car, and she held his hand and said plastic words as a man passed them on his way inside. As soon as she had buckled him in and the car doors were shut, Meridian said,

"Cut that out. You're only wasting an act and annoying me."

Beyond stopped crying immediately.

"You don't want me," he said as she started the car.

"You got that right, kid," his mother said, black eyes flickering down to examine his face for a second as she looked out the rear window, backing out of the parking lot. "But I've got you anyway. Just so we're on the same page, I'm your last living relative. If you prove to be an asset, I'll play mommy until you're legal. Otherwise I'll get rid of the extra baggage. And since I don't have anyone to pass you off to, I'll just have to make do."

"Makes sense," Beyond answered coolly, hiding his amusement. _Idiot. You're going to die in two years anyway._

"Don said you were a smart kid."

"I'm a genius."

"Yeah? Did that make Donnie proud of you?" A subtle sneer curled off the end of the question.

"Perhaps," Beyond said, the idle cut glancing off without making a mark. "He said I was a lot like you."

"Yeah? We'll see."

-o-

Meridian was a publicist. Beyond soon learned that what that meant was that her job was to make people believe that they were special, and make others believe that they were special too.

"That sounds stupid," he said when she explained it to him (in nearly those exact words).

"It is, but it makes good money and it's easy. So who cares?"

Beyond conceded that made sense. He'd never had to make his own money, but clearly the best way to do it was with minimum effort, if it could be done. She was full of useful gems like that, so Beyond figured it wasn't so bad living with her, even if she wasn't going to last long.

The other easy way that Meridian got things was by dating. Men who thought she loved them would buy her pretty things, expensive things, and take her out to dinner, fix things around her house, change the oil in her car. This, it turned out, was part of why she hadn't wanted him.

"People all say they like kids," she explained to him once while he sat on the floor of her bedroom, watching her redraw her lips with a carefully chosen shade of berry lipstick in preparation for a dinner date. "But the truth is, they don't want other people's brats. Go figure. They'd rather date people who don't have kids already. I have to aim for a higher age now, guys who are more ready to settle down with a mom, maybe have their own already."

"Evolutionary genetic preservation?" Beyond suggested around a mouthful of macaroni and cheese topped with jam. Meridian didn't much care what he ate, so long as he finished it off. For someone who had so much money, she was awfully picky about waste. Maybe that was why she had money.

"You'd know more about that than me," Meridian said disinterestedly, her mouth forming a small O as she applied mascara lightly to her lashes.

Which was true. He'd been reading about genetics lately. Meridian let him buy as many books as wanted as long as he was a model student (easy), kept his mouth shut around her boyfriends about her other boyfriends (also easy), and got her coworkers and boyfriends and their kids to think he was the most charming child they'd ever met (not quite as easy, but he was getting better with practice, mimicking his mother's easy smile and light laugh almost perfectly).

"Knowledge is power, even if the knowledge seems stupid," she often commented to him, and supported all of his intellectual pursuits (if not giving a damn about what he got up to counted as support). It was refreshing in some ways, especially after Don Birthday, who had always handled his son like a muzzled pit bull—carefully, and with fear, and with the rather pathetic hope that he could somehow tame him through trying to understand him. The time Don had caught Beyond curiously cutting the paws off his pet hamster with the paring knife to see how it would try to walk without them, he had been furious and horrified, and had tried to get him in to a counselor. When Meridian came across him in his room similarly torturing a squirrel he'd trapped in the backyard, she simply backhanded him and said, "Do that in the kitchen, or in the garage. If you get blood all over the carpet you'll be the one scrubbing it up."

By the time Meridian's numbers were down to one day, Beyond had learned a lot: how to cook almost anything with jam in, how to say "I'm sorry" so that anyone would believe it, and how to dissect both small mammals and the minds of Empaths.

He also learned that he _was_ unique. His oh-so-clever mother thought she knew everything, but like the Empaths, she was blind to the names and ticking numbers. He tested her again and again, and she never rose to the bait, even when caught unawares.

Beyond Birthday was smarter, clearer, and more perceptive than any Empath, and he had an edge over non-Empaths too, if there even _were _any others. He was _special_. So losing the benefit of having his mother as a caretaker and mentor, though somewhat inconvenient, could be no great setback. Clearly he was destined for greatness.

The last day, Beyond sat out on the back porch in the darkening dusk eating strawberry jam from the jar with a spoon and watching the neighbors over the fence through their dining room window. His mother didn't like it when he ate straight from jars or drank from cartons, because she said it spread germs. Meridian wouldn't be coming home from work today, though, so it was ok. When it started to get chilly he went inside to watch TV to pass the time. He didn't have to wait long for the police to come and tell him she was gone for good.


	2. Knight

**2. Knight**

It's the backpack that convinces Daniel (Dex, he keeps having to correct himself, Dex as in Dexter, Dexterity, the right hand opposite Sinister) that this Mr. W might actually have any interest in some orphan's welfare and that they aren't being legally kidnapped for some unsavory purpose.

The backpack is orange and blue, with a lot of pockets and zippers, and it contains everything he owns—which isn't much, but it's his. It might be an expensive backpack, or it might not. Mr. W wouldn't let them look at the price tags. That's really not as important to Daniel—no, Dex—as the fact that it occurred to someone that he might want something sturdier to pack his life into than a trash bag. Mr. W even let him pick it out. That makes D (that's easier, same initial) think his new benefactor means for him to keep it.

Hopefully he won't need it for moving again anytime soon. He's so, so tired of moving.

D loops his arms around the backpack in his lap, leaning back into the seat of the car so that it's not too obvious that he's clinging to it. The girl sitting on the other side of the backseat doesn't _seem_ to be sizing him up but what with everything Mr. W has told them about L and this so-called 'House', it's best he keeps his guard up for now.

Concord is her name, Concord like Concordia and like Peace and Harmony, he supposes—he doesn't know her by any other name, and it strikes him as incredibly strange that when she looks at him she thinks "Dex" and not "Daniel". The backpack she picked out is dark grey with blue zippers. It makes sense in D's mind, anyway, to talk to her and get the competition out in the honest open right from the start, rather than eyeing each other furtively. (Are they all still allowed to make friends, if they're competing against each other? D isn't sure. He supposes he'll figure that out as they go.) He doesn't though, because so far she has communicated mostly in nods and shakes of her head, and whenever even Mr. W addresses her she looks as though she's been given a static shock and doesn't know how it happened. D gets the feeling she's still dazed over this transition, and he wonders if she's been in the foster system forever like he has or if she's a recent orphan. He suspects the latter, since _he's_ buzzing with a tumbling mix of relief and excitement to be out of the system and being offered something more stable than a few months of awkward dinners with "moms" and "dads" who don't know quite what to make of him.

Whatever the case, he leaves her be.

The car is far from silent, however. Mr. W is more than happy to keep up a running monologue for the orphans' benefit from the passenger's seat, occasionally looking back to grace them with one of his encouraging smiles. And D is more than happy to listen.

"L doesn't come to the House very often anymore, since he travels so much for his cases," the old man is telling them, as the car trundles on across the drizzly countryside. "But you'll have many of the same teachers."

"When will we start classes?" D asks.

"There aren't enough students just yet to have regular class sessions, like at your old schools," Mr. W says, turning around again to blast them with that smile that D can't help but return. The corners of Concord's mouth twitch uncertainly, like she feels the effect too but her lips don't know quite how they're supposed to react. "You'll meet with tutors for now, studying basic subjects. Starting as soon as you like."

"What sorts of basic subjects?"

"Maths, of course. We'll have you placed as soon as possible. We have a literature professor, and a world history scholar. Natural sciences—Professor Derrick is nearly a walking encyclopedia, he can cover any subject you all would like. Many of the non-academic staff are also more than capable of tutoring you for now as well—the librarian is quite knowledgeable about politics, and we have native speakers of a few different languages who I'm sure would be happy to teach you if you're interested. And a first-rate chef, if you'd like to learn cooking. We even have a fellow who's quite good with computers—he connected us to the Internet last month. I expect you'll find his expertise quite instructive, Concord."

For the first time C gives a real smile, small and tucked in around the edges as though she's shy to show it but can't help herself. Daniel—D—files away the little fact that Mr. W has dropped about his new classmate and her purported interests, along with the footnote that Concord looks pretty when she smiles.

"And as you get settled in and think of subjects you'd like to study, we can bring in more experts and scholars on anything you'd like," the old inventor goes on cheerfully—excited by the potential it implies, D thinks. If he's willing to invest in orphans who have proved nothing more than that they can score well on tests, Potential is obviously very important to him.

"There aren't very many of…_us_ then?" he asks curiously.

"Not yet, but I expect there will be," Mr. W answers, his blue eyes sparking with excitement. "Just two, at the moment, Alternate and Backup. They'll be happy to help you get settled."

_Will they be happy to have additional competition?_ D wonders. He doubts it, but then, Mr. W presumably knows more about them than he does.

"And there will be more, and soon," Mr. W is continuing. "I'm scheduled later this week to fly out and pick up another young man."

"How many more?"

"You certainly ask a lot of questions," he says, but he beams as he says it, as though it's something he was hoping for rather than an annoyance, and, well, that's even more heartening than the backpack. "I don't know yet, Dex. As many as I can find. Boys and girls like you deserve a chance to reach your full potential, don't you think?"

"We appreciate the opportunity, sir," D says honestly, Concord nodding in agreement.

And suddenly, as though that little spark of encouragement has lit a fire under him, Daniel wants nothing more than to make Mr. W proud, and show him that he's _right_ about the Potential the old man sees in him.

"By then you'll be the House regulars already," the old man chuckles. "You'll be some of the eldest, you know. But I'm sure I can count on you to show the littler ones the ropes."

"Yes, sir," Dex says solemnly. "Of course."

* * *

AN: Just a note that this would have been roundabout 1993, when the Internet was still a pretty new thing and the WWW had only very, very recently been founded at CERN, so being wired for Internet would have been cutting-edge.


	3. Aloft

**3: Aloft**

"He's really something, isn't he?" Alt says, a little while after their second session observing L at work.

"L, you mean?" Lowering his book, Backup looks down at Alternate from where he's lounging in the windowseat. "Yes…very impressive. What on earth are you doing?"

"Not on earth." Smiling a little, he holds the nearly-completed bamboo frame up for the other boy to see.

"A box?"

"There'll be fabric on, here and here, and a string."

"Ah. A kite."

"Yep." Setting the frame on the floor again, Alt places the next piece to be attached and reaches for the twine. "Do you suppose he's always eaten that much candy?"

"I don't know. But if he keeps it up, it won't be long before he's in need of a successor. So that's good for us, hm?"

He sounds as though he's joking, so Alternate huffs a laugh. "True enough."

Alt can't think of when he's been this content in the last few years, or when he's been so satisfied. His mentor is fascinating, and he has a friend, and they have a beautiful mansion practically all to themselves, out in the country where the stars are clear. His intellect is being challenged for the first time in his memory, and he's allowed to pursue anything he likes. It's all almost enough to drive thoughts of the past out of his head. He can forget all about Colin, forget about—about everything in his life up until the House, and start fresh.

"Kites, planes, stargazing," Backup says, still watching him over his book. "Your head's in the clouds, Alt."

He's never been quite comfortable meeting people's stares head on. Often he gets this irrational gut feeling that people can read his thoughts by looking right into his eyes. Backup's ink-blot eyes are no exception, despite the friendly look on his face.

"I'll make you one too," Alt says, fixing his own eyes back on his project, and grinning a little. Backup isn't the only one who's been making mental notes about the interests and habits of his competition. "A delta. We can paint it to look like a bird, since you like animals so much."

"That sounds really neat, Alt. Thank you."

"No problem."

"Head in the clouds," Backup repeats to himself, still eyeing him consideringly. "He should have named you Altitude, not Alternate."

"It doesn't make a difference to me," he says distractedly, mind bent on his kite again. Box kites are built to fly high; they're his favorite. "Everyone would still call me Alt."

_I still wouldn't be Colin._

"A name is a name?"

"Yeah, pretty much." The question sounds more than rhetorical, and Alt reluctantly takes his attention away from his project again. "You don't think so?"

"If you like it, that's all that should matter, right?" Backup answers, black gaze returning to his book.

L, it must be admitted, is not a very good teacher. Not to say Alt isn't learning a lot from him—but it's learning best done by watching, and questioning exhaustively. The teen never seems overtly frustrated at having two boys hanging over his shoulder, asking about every conclusion he comes to, but he is not exactly eager to give unsolicited explanations of every twist and turn of his train of thought either. (Of course, he rarely seems overtly anything, except perhaps hungry—already Alt has figured out that the best way to get L to be a little more forthcoming is to immediately respond with a _I'm not hungry, go ahead and have_ _it_ if the older boy ever asks if he's going to finish his snack. Which he does, often.) The one thing that L has gone out of his way to say, though, was this:

_Suspects will say things for three reasons: 1. they think it is true, 2. they want you to think it is true, or 3. they want you to think they think it is true. Part of interrogation is figuring out which one goes with each answer they give you._

Alt figures this must apply more broadly. Glancing at Backup out of the corner of his eye, he puzzles over it for a moment, trying to think like L. He's trying to get in the habit of that.

"What is it, Alt?" Backup says, eyes still scanning the page in front of him.

Alt is fine with his name, so 2 makes little sense; the question suggests doubt, which rules out 1. Number 3 suggests that their new names _do_ matter to Backup.

"You wish Mr. W had named you something else," he concludes out loud.

That stare snaps back on him. His eyes are _so _black, as though his pupils bled across his eyes like ink on parchment and stained out his irises. Alt can half imagine them oozing across the whites of his eyes, too, and the mental image disquiets him. Caught by his glare, Alt realizes that he's made the other boy angry, and that Backup is going to lash out at him. He's never seen his friend angry in the short time he's known him, and for some reason he's wholly unnerved by the notion of the obsidian-hard darkness of his eyes bleeding into the rest of his face.

But instead his mouth quirks into a wry smile and he says, "Well, you have to admit, it kind of sucks as a name. Alternate at least suggests some level of equality. Plan B is never the ideal."

"He's just going in alphabetical order," Alt says a little uncomfortably. "It's just a word that begins with B. Look at it this way, at least he didn't name you Butterfly or Barbie or something. Or Buttface."

"That's funny, Alt," Backup says, and then laughs a little. "There are good words that begin with B, though. Brilliant. Braniac."

"Box kite," he suggests dryly.

"Sure," Backup says. He doesn't laugh this time. "Point is, he had plenty of other words to choose from."

Alt half-shrugs, now distinctly uncomfortable. Backup _is _kind of an awkward name, given the context. No one would want to be defined that way, as a copy. But that's not _his _fault. He turns back to his kite again. "Maybe Mr. W will change it if you ask."

"No, it doesn't really matter," Backup says airily, flipping a page of his book. "It's not my real name, after all. I'm not a different person just because I have a stupid nickname. If he wants to call me that, whatever."

Alternate frowns. He _is_ a different person. He is Alt, _not_ Colin.

"I dunno. We're not supposed to use our old names. We're supposed to be different now. If it really bothers you—"

"So you're saying I _am_ just a backup?" his friend says, looking up sharply.

"No, that's my point," Alt says quickly, "if you don't like your name you should just ask—"

"It's not a big deal, ok?" Backup snaps, clapping his book shut and swinging his feet abruptly to the floor. "I'm going to go read somewhere else, where people _don't_ make fun of my name—"

"Jeez, sorry, I was just trying to help!" Alt retorts, nonplussed. "Look, if it bothers you that much I just won't call you that, ok? I'll just call you B. Fill in any word you want."

"Like L, hm?" B pauses in the common room doorway, looking back at him, his hurt suddenly evaporated. "A and B?"

Alt relaxes. "Sure. Nickname of a nickname. Meta-nickname."

"Good one, A," he says, then laughs.


	4. Follow

**4: Follow**

The world is like a vast lake in her mind; some things float on the surface, like docks and boats and little swimmers, and others shift darkly beneath it, and for some reason, the frail little boats and holiday-makers seem oblivious to the moving shadows that lurk below them.

They can't be seen clearly, but she can guess at their shape and movement by the ripples they make, and she is drawn by—she's not sure what, it surely isn't curiosity. Being curious is dangerous. It is more like a moth drawn by a porch light. Or, even closer, it is like when you know there is something terrible, a maiming injury, a terrifying monster, and you don't want to look because you know it will haunt you, but you simply need to know how bad it really is.

Ripples in the pool are what draws her from her the bad house that morning. Her stepfather is doublespeaking to her mother and her mother is quietspeaking silently back, so what the girl hears is a simultaneous

"I told you to take out the goddamn trash, woman!"

"—_wouldn't dare look at me with those bored eyes if I was wringing your neck—"_

"—_if you would take it yourself, and I hope you throw your back out doing it—"_

and her plate of toast says nothing, so she runs a finger along its edge to make sure it's still there.

"Well in that case," an old man says cheerfully, "I suppose you should come with me."

She blinks. The plate is still cool and smooth and covered in crumbs under her fingers, and there is no old man in the bad kitchen. A huge shadow has just passed under the surface of the world. She has to find him if she wants to find out where they're going. This sort of thing has happened before, and she's getting better at it. Even as she notes that she will need to be able to find herself, the sounds of carhorns drowns out her mother and stepfather's voices and she hears herself saying, "We're on the corner of St. James and Piccadilly."

"I will take it out," she says right now. Her mother and the bad stepfather must not know where she is going. They would try to stop her.

There is some sort of obstacle, her stepfather says both loud words and quiet words, and in his quiet words he is accusing her of trying to protect her mother, and telling her maybe she'd like to take her place tonight again too, and how she looks so pretty between the bedposts. Her shoulder hurts later and he might have cuffed her. All of this is irrelevant, because she has an appointment to keep, and she's listening for the cheerful old man. She sets down the trash bag outside the door and picks up a pebble, so that she can tell where she is, and sets off to meet him. While she walks, she is bombarded with voices: the voices of those passing her on the street, both quiet and loud and happening around the pebble clutched in her hand, and the quiet voices of the old man and many others at a House, far away.

She nearly misses him. Usually she makes it to where she's supposed to be a little early. She has to take his hand to keep him from stepping off the sidewalk and crossing the street without her.

"You're early," she says.

"Do I know you, child?" he asks, not angry, and looking down. "What's your name?"

"I don't know yet," she says, "But you're up to the letter E."

His face is first surprised, then amazed, then grave. "How do you know that?"

"I don't know."

He says in his quiet voice, _"There's something interesting there, and no mistake!", _because, she thinks, he probably hasn't told anyone in London what he is here for. He knows she couldn't have overheard him.

"Well in that case," the old man says cheerfully, "I suppose you should come with me."

"We're on the corner of St. James and Piccadilly," E says.


	5. Process

**5: Process**

It's been three days almost exactly now since she was brought to this place. Concord can't decide if it feels more like five minutes or a month. She's so stranded that it feels like it must have taken a month to get to this point, but she feels like she's only been given five minutes to adjust.

Mostly, remembering time is hard because she's been mentally solving the logic puzzles she memorized from the little book Mr. W got her in London instead of allowing herself to pay too much attention to what's going on around her. Because remembering the name of the matron and where the dining room is means accepting that she lives here now. And that means accepting that she can't live at home anymore. And that means accepting the reason why, which is that Mum and Daddy are dead.

Concord has worked through the logical implications of that statement. If she can keep her mind occupied, perhaps it won't have to be processed any further than that.

There are computers here, many of them, just like at home. Mr. Barton is almost as good with them as Daddy is. (Actually, he is possibly just as good, but C is not willing yet to concede that until she's had more time to judge him.) He has pointed out several machines that she's more than welcome to hack apart, rebuild, reprogram, and basically fiddle with however she pleases, and has even promised that Concord can have one in her actual bedroom. Indeed, that he hopes to put computers in every room—but for now, Barton is still very busy wiring the library for Internet and setting up the intranet server. She will have to wait a couple weeks to have her own in-room computer. Which means if she wants to mess around with the computers, she has to come out of her room and go to the media lab. And if she's not shut up in her room, that means other people can—

"Hey, C," B calls out cheerily, startling her so badly she jolts up and cracks her head on the underside of the table.

Rubbing the top of her head, Concord peers out of the little cubby she's created for herself, trying to spot the boy through the maze of chairs and table legs.

Barton _did say_ she could do whatever she wanted with these computers in the back row of the media lab. The aide, Gavin, seemed dubious about the whole thing, but on Mr. W's urging he did help her cluster them all in a little circle under the table. Maybe she can't have a computer in the safety of her room yet but that doesn't mean she can't make her own little fort to make up for relative lack of privacy for now.

"What're you up to down there?"

Concord jumps and hits her head again as the boy's face suddenly pops down, black eyes meeting hers.

Nothing, she's not doing anything. She _was_ doing something, but the question seems to have driven that whatever it was clean out of her head. Wide-eyed, she stares back at him, mentally scrabbling for any clue of what she might be expected to say right now.

It frustrates C, it aggravates her. She should have something by now. She's mentally practiced for this moment, because she expected it. She expected it because it's the _seventh time_ Backup has done it today, not even counting the number of times he did it yesterday. Concord doesn't believe in coincidence. This is a pattern. Patterns played out by humans are generally intentional. Therefore B is doing _this_—'this' defined as turning up and invading her space and bothering her for no clear reason that she can discern, since he never asks for anything or seems to take anything away from the encounter—on _purpose_. Why on earth he's doing it she has no idea. All Concord knows is that she doesn't like it, which is rapidly translating into not liking _him_.

And this time, he's brought a friend. Systems become exponentially more complex as new variables are added. She curls up tighter, nerves winding with anxiety.

"Hi Concord," says the other boy, crouching down. They've been introduced, but she was mentally figuring a logic problem involving which vendors sold which wares under which colored umbrellas at the time and was not remotely interested in acknowledging the people around her who were replacing Mum and Daddy. Not that it's hard to figure out. There are at present four students; B is right there; C is her; and D she knows, sort of, would certainly recognize, anyway, because she spent nearly two days with him in London while Mr. W was sorting out their paperwork . (_He_ never bothers her for no reason. So what's B's problem?) In any case, ABCD – B – C – D = A, so that's who this is.

That fleck of logic in this unpredictable situation gives Concord the small space of clarity she needs to remember what she planned to say if Backup came back again.

"Go away."

"Aw, that's not very nice," says Backup, tilting his head. "She doesn't like you, Alt."

A looks hurt, and Concord crouches further down behind a monitor, glaring at Backup. No, that's not right. That is incorrect. She doesn't like _B_. Well, she wants them both to go away, but she planned that for B. She had not been aware that A was coming. He was not a factor. She did not plan for this scenario. She didn't know she should have. She hates this.

"Why don't you like him, C?" Backup asks her, and that's ten times worse, because now a response has been demanded of her, and she just, she doesn't _have_ one. She never had time to _make_ one.

Concord simply stares wordlessly at him. People always give up eventually, let her off the hook in impatience and irritation with her slow responses. She's come to count on it. But Backup doesn't. He just stares back, the weight of expectation growing as the seconds tick by.

What if he never stops? _Then_ what is she supposed to do?

Just when panic is starting a slow rise from her belly, the media lab door creaks again. "A? B?" a voice pipes.

"Hey Dex," Alt says cheerfully, looking over the table at the other boy. "What's up?"

"Moira is looking for you. She said she had something to show you."

Backup's eyes narrow as they break away from Concord's. Relieved, C peeks through her computers and the tables at D, standing in the doorway with another book under his arm.

(He likes books, she remembers that. He stayed up nearly all night reading at the hotel in London.)

"What sort of something?" B asks.

"I don't know. She didn't tell me. Ask her."

"Well let's go then," A says, giving his friend a light punch in the shoulder and standing up.

"Sure," says Backup. Concord is still peeking toward the doorway, but she feels his gaze flicker back over her. "Especially since you being here seems to bother C anyway."

"Hmph. I don't have a problem with _you_, you know," A tells her a little huffily. Which is—no, that's wrong. She doesn't have a problem with him. Backup made that up. How does she say that?

She hasn't figured it out by the time they're gone.

But Dex is still there.

"I lied," he says once the other two boys are out of earshot, sitting down several feet away and opening his book. "I saw Backup kept coming in here. I said that so they would leave you alone."

Concord regards him warily through two computer monitors. Dex turns a page in his book, eyes dodging back and forth down the lines. Engrossed in another book. No expectation of an answer-she knows because once D starts reading something, he's hooked. She's seen that. Looking back at the screen, she remembers again what she was doing when Backup interrupted her.

"Thank you," she says after she's poked around the folder of hardware drivers to her satisfaction. Dex nods absently, still lost in his book.

Sixteen minutes later, Concord asks, "Why are you here?"

He reads two more pages, apparently getting to the end of a chapter, before answering, "I can talk to people and you can't. You can use computers and I can't. I think if we were friends we could help each other. I thought if I came here we might make friends. Do you think so too?"

Propping her chin up on her knee, Concord mulls over his response. It's plain, logical, with a clear _Y/N?_ affixed to the end of it. He talks—he talks to her like her daddy did.

But Daddy's gone, gone, gone.

For a long time C gazes down at the keyboard, touching the keys softly with her little fingers. Finally she says, "Ok."


	6. Blur

**6: Blur**

Their first meeting was like raw sodium dropped into water.

E shrieked the instant she saw him, drowning out Mr. W's introduction, then darting behind the nearest person (which happened to be the other new kid, F) and clinging to the back of his jacket. Her huge pale eyes peeked around F, staring balefully at him.

Beyond, too, was startled (though he, unlike E, was more than capable of keeping that fact smoothly concealed)—something he almost never experienced, and which he resented. His reaction was also much slower than the girl's, which he also resented. But the worst thing was, he couldn't read her name.

_Beyond couldn't read the girl's name._

The red numbers were plain enough (and relatively short, too—a fact which he immediately seized on with vindictive triumph) but the letters, the letters blurred and wavered so that they were impossible to make out. It wasn't because she had a foreign name, either, couldn't be. Matron Marta's name at been a mystery to him at first, but a quick consultation of a Cyrillic letter guide had quickly solved it. It was more as though he were trying to read words warped by water or fuzzed by distance, or as though they simply slipped right out of his memory the instant he looked away.

"Don't mind E," laughed F (Eljasz was his name, Beyond could see that clearly enough though he'd have to look up how to pronounce it, why could he see _his_ and not _hers_?). Prying her off and ruffling her hair, the boy grinned sharply. "She's just blowing the crazy train whistle again, haha!" Whooping, he gestured energetically as though pulling a train whistle rope. "Woooo wooooooo!"

E didn't laugh or join in, just clutched at his jacket again, saying something that Beyond couldn't quite catch muffled into F's back.

"Don't be like that, Evie, this place is the best thing that ever happened to us, probsalutely! C'mon now!" Twirling her around again to face the room, F stuck his forefingers into the corners of her mouth and pushed them up to make a (rather horrified) smile.

"Fallon, don't manhandle other students that way," Mr. W scolded lightly, removing the boy's hands. E instantly attached to the old man like a freakish, glaring limpet. Those pale eyes never left Beyond's, as though she thought—_knew_—he was up to something, and was terrified she might miss it and be caught unaware. "Don't be upset, dear, this is Backup. He's another student, just like you. There is nothing to be afraid of here."

"See Ev? Nothing to be scared of. And I didn't hurt her or anything, Mr. Dubs! She hasn't got a thing to worry about from me aside from academic defeat and humiliation!" Sparking blue eyes turned to Beyond, and the boy grinned somewhat wildly. "Nice to meet you localman! Same goes for you, no offense!"

"None taken," Beyond said smoothly, with a plastic smile.

Beyond had been reading up on psychology lately. The boy was clearly some type of manic. Under different circumstances Beyond would have been interested to have someone so unstable introduced to their little pond, immediately prodding to discover any sign that might hint that he could swing to the opposite extreme, too, and anticipating what a fun game it would be to push him there. Sure, he got some entertainment out of winding C up like a coil of especially nervous wire, D had some definite long-term depression potential if he was subtle, and A had the strength of will of your average wet paper sack, which made for easy pickings; but a manic depressive with a relatively high IQ and an unstable background? That would be as fun to destroy as a truck packed with fireworks. Yet he was garden variety nothing next to the girl—the _girl_.

He was so caught off guard by the flare of anger brought on by the girl, it nearly drove out of his mind his purpose in coming down to greet Mr. W and the new arrivals in the first place: to see if L had come.

(As expected, he had not. Coward. Beyond suspected that L intended avoid the House indefinitely.)

"What's going on down here? Is someone hurt?"

Eternally concerned, little D came walking down the stairs, his solemn tone doing little to conceal the excitement evident in the tilt of his shoulders.

"Oh rose, thou art sick," the girl stammered, glancing up at him anxiously.

"No worries, she says random stuff like that all the time. Nothing hurt but egos blinded by my raw awesome," F grinned.

"Is that right?" D answered, examining the other boy as he might a very interesting picture in one of his books. "That didn't sound completely random. William Blake, wasn't it?" Smiling briefly at E and ignoring F's scoff, he turned to their benefactor. "Good evening, Mr. W. It is good to see you again. Everything has been going well here in your absence. I trust your trip has gone well? It looks like you found more than what you went for."

"Very well, as you see," Mr. W replied, eyes twinkling in good-natured amusement. Beyond filed the expression away for later practice; he could never quite manage the look in the eyes quite perfectly. "This is Even, and Fallon. Even, Fallon, this is Dex."

"Pleased to meet you," D said gravely, holding his hand out to shake. "Welcome to the House."

"You too," E murmured, taking the hand but not removing her unblinking gaze from Beyond, where he leaned in the common room doorway. From the corner of his eye he noticed F shooting him a sideways look like _What, is this guy for real?_ as D reached out to greet him too. He slapped the hand low-five style instead of shaking it, laughing out loud at D's look of consternation.

Beyond tuned out the rest of their exchange as Mr. W went to fetch the matron, paying just enough attention to note that between D's straight-laced formality and F's raucous drive to unravel it, their nascent acquaintance was quickly going downhill. Not interesting to witness, but useful to know—he could use that, later, drive a wedge between them and twist it to his own entertainment. A mundane trick, that, and not as interesting as the girl.

She was still staring at him, having found a new home clinging to D's arm and peering at him, unable to help herself.

But as always Beyond's fury died down, the quick geyser heat of it settling into calculating emptiness again: a still, cold pool.

So the girl didn't like him. So what. Animals didn't like him either; the hamster Don gave him always squeaked and scuttled when he attempted to pick it up, the neighbor's dogs would bark and snarl. She looked sickly, weak, and already D and F didn't seem to take her seriously. Even Mr. W hadn't thought twice about her scream. Even if she could somehow divine his thoughts and motives, it would prove her no good if everyone thought she were crazy. And perhaps it was coincidence anyway. She had the look of someone who would stand up poorly to abuse. Perhaps he physically resembled a former abuser. The thought made the corner of his mouth curl, and she shrank at the sight of it.

Frightened, fragile, volatile. E was no real threat. In fact, the more Beyond considered it, the more he wondered if the obscuring of her name was some fluke. Perhaps she hadn't been properly given one; perhaps she had forgotten it. There might be all sorts of explanations that he simply had not yet been able to test.

Fitting his plastic smile back on, he joined into the boys' conversation. He made sure to stand close enough for it to bother E.

* * *

**Regarding sodium metal and water: If you're not a chem student, youtube it. the reaction can be quite spectacular.**

**Even's reference is to William Blake's poem 'The Sick Rose'.**


	7. Switch

**7: Switch**

It's as Mr. W is showing him how to fasten the seatbelt on the plane that Amos comes far enough out of his haze of shock and misery to wonder in sudden panic if he has made a terrible, terrible decision in agreeing to come to England instead of demanding to be taken to his uncle's house.

Riding in a plane—across the ocean—he's always wanted to see one up close but now that they're on board, even though he's not old enough to have taken his vows to uphold the _Ordnung_, he feels awful about how disappointed in him his parents will be when he gets home—

He tries to stop that thought in its tracks, but it plows him over again despite his efforts.

_There _is_ no home anymore. Home is gone. I'm never going back._

For the fourth time that day he starts to cry, and for the fourth time that day Mr. W patiently puts an arm around his shoulders and says comforting words until he's all spent.

He doesn't want go back anyway. To walk by that same barn, and sit in that same schoolhouse, and see the all the same faces except those he most wants to see—Mother and Father and Grandmother, and little Rebekah and Naomi and Sarah and baby Esther, oh God, oh—

He's started hyperventilating again, and Mr. W asks the plane girl to fetch him a paper bag.

The plane takes off, making his stomach drop, and he leaves behind Amos (who everyone believes is dead already) and becomes Hopper, and the howling of the turbines sounds so much like the shriek of the tornado that he has to cover his popping ears and remind himself with as fast as all of these strange, incomprehensible things are happening to him, it _must_ be God's will.

-o-

It's the biggest house he's ever seen, with a stone wall and no barn. The great gates open automatically as the car approaches and there are unflickering lights in some of the windows—electric ones, bright yellow in the darkness. More electric lights. Everything out here is so—so automatic, so shiny, so _fast_, and Hopper thinks he must seem a bit slow in comparison.

_Slow and steady's the best way to get the job done,_ he hears his father say in his mind, and has to shut him out. Father's dead. They're all dead, all in Heaven together while he is alone. If he lets himself think about them, he'll never feel any sort of right again.

They go inside. He meets his new Mama, who's not his mother, a couple of his new brothers. So weird, he's never had brothers, and he's always been the eldest, and now he's got them and he's not. The House is so big and relatively empty—judging by the size of the dining hall and his rough estimation of the building's volume from the outside, it could easily house a hundred and still feel roomy; yet by his estimation from what little of Mr. W's explanations he's listened to there are fewer than twenty people here. Like pebbles rattling in a tin can. With no toddlers underfoot, it feels not only underpopulated, but sterile and quiet, not peacefully quiet but like the quiet of a sickroom. Marta tries to get him to eat something but suppertime was hours ago and Hopper—he's really not hungry, _really_ he's not, he just wants to sleep right now.

That is, until he's tucked into bed and the door is shut and light turned out and he _can't_.

For a while he tosses and turns, thinking and trying not to think. He tries praying, but that reminds him of evening family devotions, so he tosses and turns and tries not to think some more.

_Idle hands are the devil's_— he imagines his grandmother starting, and Hopper actually says out loud, "Be quiet!"

_A wild child_, his mother would often call him, because after he finished chores he'd often go wandering off by himself to make things. Unnecessary things. Things for the sake of making things, and therefore frivolous, possibly even leading his mind down dangerous paths. He's never been able to help himself. He'd see a picture in a book—a trebuchet, a ship, the first flying plane, and think, _oh, I see. I could make that. I could make it better_. And then he would.

Just last week Father had talked to him about it. Father never shouted, he explained things in his slow, quiet way: telling Amos that God had blessed him with a keen mind, but that he mustn't misuse it with frivolous pursuits. If he liked making and fixing things, well, there were plenty of things around the community that could use some fixing. There was no need to be looking around Outside for inspiration, or he might become arrogant about his God-given talents.

Tears tingle at the corner of his eyes as he banishes his father's face from his mind again. This has to stop.

Staring at the ceiling doesn't help his brain space off. Instead he finds himself staring at the ceiling lamp. Hopper gets up. He needs something to do. Something productive. Mr. W showed him the library and he remembers clearly how to get there, but he's not supposed to wander the halls at night. That's fine, because there's plenty to keep him occupied right here. First he opens the window, letting in the warm green breeze—there are no cicadas singing, which is strange, but the sky is clear and stars prickle in the darkness. No impending storms. Safe for now. Feeling slightly calmer, Hopper pads back across the room to take closer look at this lightswitch thingamabob.

On, off. On, off. Light, dark. Remarkable. So easy. Hopper flicks the light back on and off a few times, squinting up at it.

Mr. W took his pocketknife for safekeeping before going through airport security, but gave it back when they got to England after a solemn vow on the Bible that Hopper would never, ever use it on another person (which wasn't hard to make—what sort of awful person would do that?). It's not hard to unscrew the lightswitch cover from the wall, nor to cut away the thin plaster around the switch itself. Removing it carefully from its housing, he examines the thing. Three wires. One must be to the power source, traveling down, the other two, going up, presumably go to the light. Coated copper wires. He has a vague notion that electrons move along conductors like copper, which makes electricity, though he's not clear on exactly how. Hopper doesn't touch them or crack open the switchbox itself, since he's not sure if that will damage the light (leaving him in darkness, unable to continue his inspection) or electrocute him. In any case, it seems simple enough. He could set up something like this.

He's in the process of debating if any stacking combinations of the available furniture will give him a sturdy enough platform to stand on to remove the lamp cover and take a look at the bulb itself, flipping the switch on and off as he thinks, when there are quiet voices outside his door and then a knock.

"Come in," he says automatically (there was never much privacy at home).

It doesn't really occur to him how this must look until after the door opens.

"Hello," says the blond boy who opens it, then forgets whatever else he was about to say upon nearly walking into Hopper, who's standing right there with the switchbox in his hands and a good chunk of his wall lying at his feet.

"Um," says Hopper. His English is good, but takes a little more thought than German, especially when caught off guard like that. "Good evening. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you," says the other boy, looking up from the square of plaster on the floor. Another boy peeks curiously around his shoulder at Hopper—no, wait, it's a girl with really, _really_ short hair. "We saw the light going on and off and wondered if you were ok."

"Yes," says Hopper, then, "I thought we were not allowed to leave our rooms after curfew."

"But it's ok to chop up the wall," the girl mumbles.

Hopper smiles good-naturedly, shrugging. "I can fix it in five minutes, with a little bit of plaster."

"Don't worry," says the boy. "She doesn't usually talk in front of people. She must like you. I'm Dex, and this is Concord. You must be Hopper. We didn't think Mr. W would bring you until morning. Pleased to meet you."

Dex hasn't left him with much to reply to that, but, Hopper decides as he returns the proffered handshake, that having a brother could actually be really fun.

* * *

_Ordnung_: the ways and regulations of the Amish. Flying on planes is among the technologies they reject.


	8. Deadpan

**Completely unrelated: if you enjoy my writing, I'm also working on an original story called 'Heidi and the Maskmakers' posted both on FictionPress and on deviantArt under the same screenname.**

**8: Deadpan**

The newest little kid appraises the House as though he's considering buying the place, strolling in at Mr. W's side with his hands in his pockets and a grin so broad it's difficult to tell if he's smiling or baring his teeth.

"Dis big castle you got, Wa, you some rich guy, _shi bushi_? I shoulda keep you wallet, you don' need it no."

"I assure you that you won't be needing it either," Mr. W chuckles, looking down at his most recent acquisition fondly. "Remember what I told you, Gao, we have a no-tolerance policy on stealing here. If there is anything you need or want, all you have to do is ask for it."

"I told you L wouldn't come," Alt whispers to Backup.

They're sitting in the upstairs hallway, peering down through the banisters.

"No, you're right," B agrees musingly. "He didn't. I wonder why he never visits anymore?" He considers A sidelong for a moment, just long enough for him to wonder if Backup is thinking _he_ might have done something to make L angry (though he can't imagine what), then turns his black gaze down again to examine the latest addition. "Looks like Mr. W is going farther afield for new fish."

"Yeah." Alt watches the new boy curiously, tilting his head a little. "I can hardly tell what he's saying."

"Me neither," B says, mouth twisting upward. "He'll have to catch up. No competition at all."

The two friends exchange smug smirks. Like any of these little kids will ever be competition. _They_ haven't worked with L. They're just placeholders, filling up all the empty rooms in this building while A and B live up to their mentor's title.

"Ack! You two really shouldn't sit here like that," Dex complains, nearly tripping over Alt as he hurries down the hall. "It's a hazard. What if someone didn't see you and fell down the stairs?"

Backup rolls his eyes slightly. "Watch your feet then," Alt retorts.

"I swear I'm the only responsible one in this place sometimes," D mutters not-very-quietly as he steps around them.

"Well then no one would have to worry about falling down the stairs, because you'll probably be there to warn them, or catch them at the bottom," Backup says, managing to keep a perfectly straight face—a feat Alt is unable to duplicate.

"Yes, I probably would," the younger boy says long-sufferingly, ignoring the sniggering with dignity as he marches down the steps to say hello to the newcomer. Greeting the fish seems to be a task he's apparently starting to take rather seriously.

"Come on," says B, bored already with the proceedings. "Let D have him, we'll have to meet him at dinner anyway. Library's way more fun than these squirts."

"Yeah, sure," Alt says a little reluctantly. It's true that he'd rather read or work on his star charts than bother with the younger kids, but B's recently taken an interest in the anatomy section of the library, and is always keen to share the…interesting stuff he finds. He gets that Backup is interested in biology and how living things work, but all those pictures of sliced-up animals and glistening organs laid out like diagrams make him a little queasy.

"What, you'd rather stay and play with the kids?" B teases.

"_No_!" Alt scoffs, and follows him.

-o-

"This place must seem really different to you," B says to the new kid over dinner.

Gao's sharp little eyes are focused on Gavin's hands, watching and analyzing as the young man slices his chicken into bite-sized pieces. "Hey, gimme doze one, I can try dat," he says, reaching to grab the fork and knife.

"Sure, Gao," the aide says easily, evading the boy's snatching fingers and then handing them to him. "No need to take, you can just ask."

"Yeah, ok," G replies off-handedly, having a go at the chicken. The utensils are a little unwieldy in his small hands, but he doesn't do a half bad job. "Differn', I not scared of differn'," he finally answers Backup, giving the older boy a smile that brings to mind a piranha homing in on a bleeding ankle. "Maybe, ok, dat be problem for you. Not for me."

Alt can't help himself; catching the tiny flicker of B's sideways glance, he has to stifle a snicker in his hand. It's funny, how the little kids think they're stiff competition. But as always, of course, his friend is able to keep his face perfectly straight, even giving the little boy a brotherly smile. "That _would_ be _a_ problem," he corrects him cheerfully.

Gao gives him an unfriendly smile through a mouthful of chicken. "Tanks, smart guy."

"Chew and swallow first, then talk," Moira reminds him, and gives Backup a meaningful look. "No Before questions, Backup, remember?"

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it that way," B says contritely. "I just meant, I hope you like it here at the House, even if it's different from where you come from."

"Moira said no Before questions," Dex interjects.

"Shut up, Dex. Nobody cares," says Fallon, making the other boy scowl.

"Yes, thank you, Dex," Moira says patiently. "Fallon, if you show respect for other's opinions, they will respect yours."

"Shaggy guy is right, is 'k, I don' care about questions," Gao says blithely through another faceful of roasted chicken.

"Maybe it doesn't bother you, but it's still not proper to discuss here in the House," Gavin says. "Concord, would you please at least taste your carrots?"

"No. She hates carrots," Even murmurs into her cup of milk as C glares balefully at the aide over her vegetables.

"So, what's your thing, G?" Backup asks casually, forking up a bite of his own carrots.

"Eh, what?" Gao cocks his head. "What thing? What do you mean, smart guy?"

"Your inclination. Your faculties. Your aptitude. What is it?" Backup smiles expectantly. Gao squints back at him, clearly no closer to following what he's saying. It's bordering on cruel, Alt thinks, it really shouldn't be so funny. Though, to be honest, he doesn't actually know that B is doing it on purpose. B has a fun sense of humor, but Alt can't ever remember him being _mean_.

"The twister of twists once twisted a twist," E mutters under her breath.

"Thank you, Ev, that was enlightening," Fallon remarks affectedly, swirling his milk in his glass as though it's fine wine then laughing.

"What Backup is trying to say is, what is your talent. What are you good at," Moira says slowly and distinctly.

"Right, sorry. That's the word I was looking for," B agrees earnestly.

"Riiiight, yeah, I got you," Gao says, then cracks a huge grin. "I win. That what my talent. Win."

"How nice," says Backup, and _jeez_, he can really keep a straight face.


	9. Games

**AN: Aha, I am still working on this. Sorry it's been so long-I've been sidetracked by some other fics and IRL stuff, plus I got a little stuck halfway through this chapter and had to rework it. Anyway here's a longish chapter to make up for my procrastinatory ways.  
**

**9: Games**

Fallon loves the House.

It's almost romantic, this manor house out in the middle of nowhere, hiding state-of-the-art technology and the secret of the biggest figure in armchair justice behind the quaint façade of neat lawns and vine-covered brick. Like in a spy movie, or a novel. And living in this foreign country in a houseful of other foreigners, with teatime and odd accents—so exotic, so exciting. The computers, the wonderful library! The pool, which he has practically all to himself! And being able to study whatever he feels like, whenever he feels like it, being groomed to be one of the most powerful men on earth—it's heaven. It's a catapult to the stars.

True, his classmates are few and a bit kooky. And there is an exasperating overpopulation of watchful and halfway intelligent adults.

But even the company, though not ideal, is a far cry better than what he had at the orphanage. Evenings would have been spent in the dorm, reading on his bed as a pretext to keep an eye on his belongings and working very hard to digest the creative bungling of the cook there. Not in a warm, well-lit library, stuffed with cottage pie and pudding, with a mug of cocoa at his elbow and all the armies of Africa , half of Europe, and a small bit of Asia at his disposal.

They're an hour and a half into their game of Risk, and all any of them has really been able to do thus far is consolidate their armies. Alt's entrenched in Australia but has been quickly losing his foothold in Asia first to Backup in the north and now to Fallon in the Middle East. In addition to his designs on his friend's territory on the big continent, Backup has a comfortable hold on northern Europe and the northern half of North America; and Dex has been sitting pretty in South America, slowly but steadily pushing his way up the North American coast to take Greenland from Backup.

Fallon laughs at the twitch of irritation that crosses the older boy's face as B and D roll the dice for battle, and Dex's armies come out on top.

"It's not fair, how am I supposed to keep up a defensive front against both of you teaming up on me?" Backup grumbles, inky eyes following Dex's hand back and forth as he removes the black counters representing the defeated armies from the board then shifts his own orange army counters to occupy his newly acquired territory.

"Teaming up? Pff!" Fallon scoffs, laughing again. "What the heck do you mean, teaming up, B, there's four players and we're all trying to win, don't put on like you're a victim."

"Backup is simply concerned that he is becoming a more vulnerable target due to his losses in the north for the last few rounds," Dex states, then smiles at him a little. "It's your turn, Fallon."

"It is your turn, Fallon," B mimics, rolling his eyes at F. "That means you can go now. Just in case you forgot which way is clockwise."

F snickers, and Alt grins a little as D glances crossly at the older boy. "You know, you could be more polite, Backup…."

"You know, you could lighten up for once, Dexie."

D's jaw twitches in this certain way whenever he grits his teeth. Haha, he hates that nickname _so _much. F can tell, even though he's never said so. He suspects his stuffy rival would rather dye his own hair neon pink than admit he's aggravated.

"Come on, B, this is as light as he gets. He even took off his tie for the game," Fallon sniggers, placing his new army counters.

"I think he's mocking you, D, are you just going to take that?" Backup asks, swapping his 'Dexie-voice' for one of fake seriousness (or at least F's assuming it's fake, because _come on_, haha) but Dex doesn't reply, just looks back at Fallon with _real _seriousness and says,

"The game is going to be tied up for a while at this rate. Alt is the weakest player—" (he goes on, ignoring Alt's protesting _hey!_) "—but he's in a good siege position, and it would take forever to dig him out. Between the two of us, we could probably knock Backup out of the game within three rounds."

"Yes, Mr. Fallon," Backup agrees solemnly, lacing his fingers and sitting up straight, parroting D's expression. "Verily, the foe may be thus cast down, should we remove the silver spoons from our arses long enough to go for the throat." Abruptly his demeanor switches, lounging back with a comically charicatured expression of cocky annoyance. "Tch, what, are you kidding, I could win this game like fifty-seven million times in a row while waiting for you to pull your spoon out. Pff!" he retorts to himself in a nasal voice that's obviously supposed to be F (maybe a little _too_ nasal, but come on, it's a joke).

Alt and Fallon both burst out laughing, while Dex sighs long-sufferingly.

Fallon sniggers too, but is considering. Backup is an odd duck, there's no denying it. There's something a little off about him sometimes that F can't quite put his finger on, though he's certain he'll figure it out eventually—a split second lag to react to jokes or surprises sometimes; a sudden intensity in his eyes at apparently random moments, like smouldering pitch. The guy's just a bit weird, no other word for it. F hasn't made up his mind yet quite what he thinks of him.

He's _funny_, though, absolutely hysterical, with his deadpan statements and dead-on impressions, and that covers up a lot of sins.

Then there's Dex, who has the sense of humor of a piece of damp cardboard. It's pretty safe to say that from day one Fallon found him irritating at best. And, well, every superhero needs an arch-nemesis. They're all rivals here, but Dex—Dex just really pushes all of his buttons, just by breathing and existing. He always has to show off how smart he is, and he always has to do it by being boring.

Like right now—pfft, as if Fallon needs D's _help_ forming a strategy! He's pretty sure he's smarter than the other boy. Following his suggestions appeals to F about as much as giving the stuck-up snot his dessert for the next month.

(Even though it's actually a pretty good strategy, which makes a lot of sense, and as he looks at the board it's clear that Dex is right and that after taking down Backup it wouldn't be hard to push Alt all the way back into Australia and eventually shove him off the island, and then it'd be a showdown just between the two of them, he can see it in his mind's eye like it's been laid out on a neat timeline labeled 'Path to Inevitable Glory'. Which is a pretty tempting name for a path.)

"Well?" says B, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Fallon twiddles the dice in his fingers, then grins. "Nice try, Dexie, but you better watch your butt. I think I'd rather go naval."

Then he attacks Brazil over the Atlantic, striking to invade the heart of D's little empire.

It takes several turns, but between Fallon driving into his side and Backup recovering in the north, Dex doesn't stand a chance. F has the unmitigated pleasure of seeing his stodgy rival pushed off of the edge of the world first, even before Alt. D's jaw tightens and his eyes narrow as Fallon sweeps his last pieces grandly off the table, letting them clatter across the library floor, but simply says, "Well played."

The new God-Emperor of Most of the Southern Hemisphere Except Antarctica Which Doesn't Count Anyway (and Australia But Whatever) is in high spirits for exactly twenty-seven more rounds. That's how long it takes Backup to eradicate A. It's also the number of rounds before Addison pokes his head in and tells them curfew is in five minutes.

"_Whaaat_? But we're not done, Addison! I'm not done winning!"

The man just smiles. "You boys are in here every night. I'm sure you'll get another chance to win. Stella and Jerzy will be checking by in ten to make sure you're in bed—and by in bed I mean teeth brushed, lights out. So get to it."

"Oh well. Better luck for us next time, right?" Alt smiles in a way that's not nearly confident enough to be cocky and so lands in some pathetic zone Fallon refers to as Well Since I Never Win I've Learned to Be Happy About Being A Loser. Elbowing Dex, he earns a small smile from the other boy, and their stupid losery camaraderie, which is _clearly_ just happiness that Fallon doesn't get to call his victory complete, makes him want to spit.

"Oh, so because you guys suck are going to be babies, you just want to start over, right. Tch. I see how it is," he mutters, kicking bad-temperedly at the leg of D's chair. Turning up his nose slight, Dex ignores him.

"We could always finish tomorrow night before starting a new game," B says. For less than an instant there's that strange inkblot look in his eyes, but A jostles him, scoffing, and it's immediately dispelled.

"Uh-huh, and D and I will just sit and watch you guys flail at each other for hours. That sounds _splendid_."

"Good point, A," Backup says far too genially, and D, who's already started putting away the game pieces, interjects, "Come on, everyone, we're supposed to clean up and I'm not going to do it all for you."

"Oh, get over yourself, _Dexie_," F snaps, shoving his chair back so hard he knocks several army counters to the floor and stalking out of the library.

By the time his teeth are brushed, through, he's talked himself back into a good mood. After all, he had practically had that game in the bag. Ok, so maybe he didn't beat everybody, but he has before, and he could have tonight. Besides, he beat out Dex, and that's really the fun part. Alt is too nice when he wins, and when he loses, lording it over him isn't much fun. It's actually kind of pitiful. Backup is fun to beat for the millisecond he actually seems annoyed, but he quickly shrugs it off. Dex, though, he _simmers_. Few things fill Fallon with the sort of glee that wiping the smug smirk off that prat's face does, and that's saying something, because it really doesn't take much to amuse him. And after all, they will rematch tomorrow, first in class and then again on the Risk board. He'll have plenty of opportunity to rub his snot nose in his defeat.

Dunking Dex's toothbrush in the toilet before the other boy gets back to the dormitory helps too.

He's clicking off the bathroom light and heading back toward his room when he hears Dex and Backup coming down the hall around the corner.

"— very clever," Dex is saying in his fakest civil voice. "But depending on that sort of manipulation probably won't work once he realizes you're doing it."

There's Backup's light laugh. "Ahaha, oh D, I think you're just a little worked up about losing. It's just a game, and like A said, you'll get another chance to do better. Don't be so touchy."

"You _know_ I'm not talking about Risk," D retorts, his temper finally lit. "Nobody here is stupid, Backup. Don't treat us like we are."

"Me? I don't know what you're talking about. You said it. And you're the one who seems to think everyone else is too dense to see through my oh-so-clever 'manipulations'—where are you going? Isn't it a little rude to walk off in the middle of a conversation?"

"I'm going to bed," snaps Dex, then rounds the corner to find Fallon leaning against the wall, eyebrows raised.

"Hi, Fallon," he starts, relaxing deliberately, then his eyes flicker back and he sighs. "I suppose there's no point in pretending you weren't listening in just now."

And that just pisses Fallon right off. What a self-righteous little—making it sound like _he's_ the sneaky one, 'listening in' on a conversation while D is talking smack behind his back. Because the resigned, red-handed look on his rival's face clinches what he more or less figured: F is the 'he' that supposedly doesn't realize Backup is manipulating him.

"I know what you're thinking—"

"You always like to think that, don't you?" Fallon cuts him off. Good feelings gone. Dex seems to have that ability, to immediately suck all the joy out of the air just by being around. "You lost because B 'manipulated' me into going against you, is that it? I mean I know you're a sore loser, but that's really something."

"He would have beat you easily if Addison hadn't stopped the game," D says evenly. "He had three complete continents and you only had one. If you weren't so—"

"So what, Dex? Just what am I?" Fallon growls, bumping their chests slightly. They're roughly even heights so he leans forward aggressively, knowing D will read insecurity into it if he goes up on his toes to look down at the other boy. Because he does annoying things like that.

"Arrogant!" Dex snaps back, not flinching.

"Oh, I'm arrogant? Am I arrogant, Dex? _So _arrogant? How arrogant?" He jostles him again. "You're the world expert on arrogance, so I'm interested to hear."

"Enough to not see it when Backup tugs you around." Hazel eyes bore into blue, and he lowers his voice to hover just above a whisper. "Come on, F, at least try to be serious for once in your life. Don't you think there's something…_off_ about him?"

F lets out a snort of laughter. Is his arch-nemesis actually trying to _confide _in him? Or is this just another attempt at manipulation? "You're just sore because I teamed up with him instead of you."

"Perhaps." Dex clearly doesn't give that idea a speck of credence. And _Fallon_ is supposed to be arrogant, pff.

"It's not arrogance when someone really is superior," F informs his frowning rival with a smirk.

"I wouldn't know it from the way you—"

"Let people manipulate me, right. D, did it ever occur anywhere in that big fat puffed-up brain of yours that maybe it has nothing to do with Backup, and I just can't stand you?"

Dex scowls at him. "I'm going to bed," he announces snippily, turning on his heel. "You should too, before Jerzy comes around."

"Don't forget to brush your teeth," Fallon calls after him, smirking.

Backup manipulating him, pfft. They all manipulate each other, all the time, so even if he was trying to manipulate F (which, ok, let's get this straight, he attacked D because he _wanted to_, not because B talked him into it, got it?), how was that any different from any other person or time in the House?

Laughing to himself at his rival's paranoia, F skips off to his room in high spirits. He's pretty sure the God-Emperor of the Southern Hemisphere won that little exchange, too.


	10. Window

**10: Window**

Icarus hates everything. She doesn't think she has room inside herself for any other feeling anymore.

She hates everyone she sees, because they're not scarred. They still think good things about the world, and about other people. She hates their faces, she hates their voices. She hates that she has neither now.

(Before, both her face and her voice were beautiful. Her parents always said so. Her mother would always ask her to sing _xiao yanzi, _the little swallow song, but now she never will.)

Mr. W has tried to understand, but he can't. He means well but he's unscarred too. He understands that he can't understand, but that doesn't mean much to Icarus.

Icarus thought she might hate the other side of the world marginally less, so she came with him anyway. It's pretty much the same, but everything's in English so she feels like her hearing isn't as useful anymore either. If it weren't for the echoes, she'd hardly know what was going on around her. She feels like a toy broken beyond repair, nothing works quite right. She hates that too.

The one thing in the universe she does like right now is the windowseat in the common room. It's mercifully quiet in there, because she ignored Moira until the young woman left her alone. She likes the light slanting in, the fog on the glass on this cool morning, her first English morning, the glow of the sheer white curtains. It feels like a little corner of the world that is untouched. She doesn't believe in that sort of thing anymore, but it's nice to pretend. Jetlag and a long nap on the plane means she never slept last night, so the morning has a pearly, sleepy haze to it that makes her feel suspended in a waking dream about nothing.

All of her sleeping dreams are nightmares these days, so it's a definite improvement.

She hears the bare feet padding down the stairs, creaking on the third-to-bottom step, hears the air flow around thin limbs and furtive movements, hears the barest rustle of fabric and the pause at the doorway. Only a slight pause, then,

"_Zao an, jiejie_."

Icarus slides her eyes to look sidelong at the intruder through her hair. It's the boy with the mouth like a shark. (His echoes, too, are sharp and ridged, like shark's teeth.) The only other kid in this place who isn't white that she's seen so far. G for Gao.

She has nothing to say to that. Hmph. She _can't_ say anything to that. Icarus turns back to the window.

Gao doesn't seem to find this off-putting. Ignoring her ignoring him, he saunters over to the shelf of games and toys, rifling through a crate of card games. "Mr. Wa says you can't talk," he continues in their native language. "Too bad for you, hm? You got cut up pretty badly." He finds what he is looking for, a deck of poker cards. Tossing the box back into the crate, he straightens the deck with two sharp raps against his palm. "Still, it'd be rude of me not to come say hi to a countryman, even if you can't answer, wouldn't it?"

His tone is brash, careless. His echo is not. Barely perceptible through all the bravado, it whispers like birdwatcher who spots a hummingbird, eager but afraid of frightening it away. _I hoped they'd find someone like me._

He's wrong. She's not like him. She doesn't speak that language anymore. Or any language. Mr. W has gotten videos and books for her, and everyone else too probably, to learn sign language. Icarus doesn't want to learn sign language. She wants to sing and talk again.

Too damn bad for her, Icarus supposes.

The cards slap and snap in his hands as he shuffles them. While he shuffles, he talks.

"You know, you're not so weird. A lot of people don't talk much around here. You met any of them yet? I don't think I've heard Concord put two sentences together. Same with Hopper. They just sit and _look_ at things, you know? Ev, nobody knows what the hell she's ever going on about when you can get her to open her mouth. Dex, everything he says comes out of a book, probably a boring one.

"Alt and Backup, well, Backup does all the talking there. Backup, he's a guy I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley. Seems nice enough, but it's just that prickle feeling you get on the back of your neck when you're hanging with a shady dealer. And anything that comes out of Alt's mouth was usually planted there by Backup," he rambles on, flicking the cards back and forth between his hands. "Fallon, never mind, he does talk a lot. You can't get him to shut up. And there's Moira and Gavin, of course. Moira's new hobby is correcting my English." Gao sniggers like this is funny. His echo indicates it's really not.

Icarus half-listens despite herself. The echoes are far more interesting than the words.

"But nobody talks about themselves, you know? We all live together, we do all this 'school' stuff—hah. Nothing real, though. The kids here don't fight, they _debate_. Like robots. They don't want to be personal. It's so lame. You know, if I had a problem with a guy back at home, he'd try to knife me and I'd slash his bike tires. None of this debating crap."

At the mention of knifing, Icarus finally turns to look at him, scarred lip curling up into a cold sneer. Some people can talk about that thing lightly.

Gao's sharkish mouth twists into a smirk. "Oh I hear you, _jiejie_. That sucks, but I'm not saying sorry. That happens, because that's just the lousy world we live in, eh? Here." Dropping his deck of cards on the (_her_) windowseat, G turns around and hikes his shirt up. Sure enough, there's a small white mark on his lower back. "Lucky me, mine's not on my face. Not much to look at, but my friend stuck me pretty deep, almost got my kidney. I got him better, though—no, I didn't stab him," he says at the disgusted look on Icarus's face. "For your information, I got him arrested. Smartest street kid in Beijing. But that's the sort of thing, you know?"

He picks his cards back up, giving the deck a sharp flick of his finger. "I'm not afraid of that. We got these new English names, these letters, and that's fine. G, I can be that. But I'm not sorry about who I was either!" Gao grins, eyes glowing brazenly. "My name used to be Tang Kuanyin, panhandling smartass, and I don't care who knows it. If I'm ever L, I want those guys to know who beat them. I don't need all these secrets and hidey-holes. If you're the best you shouldn't have to hide it."

Evidently this is all supposed to make an impact on Icarus. It doesn't really, because all his blustering rings hollowly over the echoes, which mutter and grit about standing like a stone in crowds and the pull of ocean undertow at slender ankles. She looks back out the window, frowning.

"You don't think so, eh?" he says, skipping over the gap in the conversation—which somehow suddenly feels like a conversation, though she has said nothing. And still says nothing, because she can't.

"Eh, well, whatever." Gao laughs, snapping through the cards again and chucking them carelessly over his shoulder to flutter and flap to the floor. "Nice talking to you anyhow, _jiejie_," he says, strolling back to the door. "Best conversation I've had in weeks. All that English ties my mouth in knots."

Tang Kuanyin pauses at the door, and she actually hears the echo before he says it out loud, perhaps because it's far more desperate than anything she can imagine him allowing himself to say aloud.

"_Ni tingdong ma_?" _Do you understand what I'm saying?_

She does, and she doesn't. He's been knifed, but nothing like what her parents' killer did to her to keep her from talking. He understands, he doesn't.

Icarus thinks, probably, no one ever really understands anything.

With one finger she traces the characters on the misted glass.

_Tingdong_. _Yes, I understand._

* * *

**AN: Sorry if my Chinese is horrible, I'm pretty out of practice and I was never that good in the first place...**

_jiejie - _older sister

_zao an -_ good morning_  
_


	11. Petition

**AN: I think I may have posted somewhere but I don't remember...Allen Witterson is the House manager before Roger comes along.**

* * *

11: Petition

Paperwork. Witterson sighs. It's really not his thing.

On the other hand, it is _relatively_ good paperwork, at least. Intake papers that need to be made ready for the newest student, scheduled to arrive from the United States with Quillsh this evening. Hopper sounds like a delightful boy, from Wammy's description, and it thrills Witterson to see the place filling up. It was like a mausoleum those first several weeks, with just Alt and Backup, and the addition of Dex and Concord did little to turn up the volume. Such shy things.

Fallon and Gao have changed that, of course. There is certainly plenty of noise whenever one of those two gets riled up. He rubs his forehead to guard against a non-existent headache, but laughs to himself. No, Fallon definitely makes himself heard when he deems it necessary.

But still, for a man who is used to having a couple hundred chattering voices milling past his door several times a day, and who had to _make _time to do this necessary but evil paperwork because his office was so often occupied by students with troubles they needed to talk out or who even just wanted to show him their latest work….

It's _quiet_ here. Quiet in this little patch of the countryside, quiet in the sleepy town of Winchester, quiet in this mostly-empty House.

Witterson gazes sideways out his window for a while, meditating on the nature of silence and thinking about how the institution of 'quiet time' was such a helpful thing for the kids at his last school. It helped them relax, see their busy schedules in a more peaceful light, organize their mental files. Here, he thinks, it would hardly make a difference. _All_ the time is quiet thinking time with some of these little prodigies. Tapping his pen thoughtfully on the stack of papers, he wonders if maybe the opposite, some kind of 'loud time'—

Oh, right. The papers. He's supposed to be filling them out. Witterson sighs a little, trying to find where he left off.

The timid little knock at the door is a welcome distraction.

"Concord! Please, come in."

The little girl stares up at him for a moment, but hesitantly steps into the room, fingers locked behind her back. Happily he escorts her to the chair by his desk. When the room was first furnished the chair was on the other side of it, placing the bulky desk as a wall between him and his visitors—a rather authoritarian setup which he quickly altered.

In the time it takes him to sit down, however, Concord slips out of the other seat and scuttles around the desk to sit on the floor, leaning against it where he can't see her at all.

A little stung, Witterson gives the ring on his right hand a twist to keep himself from suggesting she stay in the chair and cheerfully points out to himself that this is still a step up. For once _she_ is seeking _him_ out. The boys and Even all seem to like him well enough. Alright, _most_ of the boys and Even seem to like him well enough. Gao still doesn't seem to trust him much, but he doesn't seem to trust much anyone. But Witterson thinks Alt and Backup already practically see him as a grandfather. Gao will come around.

Just as Concord finally seems to be doing. Usually when he spends time with the students, she shifts away to hang nervously by or behind Dex. She's so cripplingly shy, Witterson muses a little sadly, but he's convinced she can be brought out of her shell. He's dealt with shy children before.

If he indulges her little eccentricities, he's sure she'll warm up to him. Witterson smiles and says nothing about the seating arrangement. "How are you today, Concord?"

"Fine," comes the automated response from behind the desk.

"Chegal tells me you're building a computer." After a brief pause, it occurs to him that Concord probably needs more of a direct prompt than that. "Is that fun?"

"…Yes," Concord says at length. Small fingers peek up over the edge of his desk, questing around. Upon finding the calculator he uses when working on the budget, they retreat with the prize. Soft clicking noises fill in the silence as the girl plays with her newfound toy. "I don't want to talk about that right now," she finally adds with a hint of impatience.

In a normal child Witterson would have taken that as a red flag to a sensitive subject; with Concord, however, he has come to realize that these sorts of statements are pure fact. "What would you like to talk about, Concord?"

"Backup." Witterson raises his eyebrows and waits. After several long seconds the clicking of the calculator buttons halts. "Backup is mean."

"Did he say something mean to you, Concord?"

"…No." He has to force himself to wait patiently for her to elaborate. "He comes and bothers me for stupid reasons."

Smiling indulgently, he shakes his head. An extreme introvert like Concord probably would consider that mean. "Maybe he wants to be your friend."

"_No._" The little voice is soft but adamant. "Backup is _not _my friend. He is _mean._ _Dex_ is my friend."

"You can have more than one friend, Concord," Witterson points out gently. "Backup is a very friendly boy. He likes to be around people a lot. He probably just doesn't know that he's bothering you. If you ask him nicely, I'm sure he will give you more space."

Concord mutters something so quietly he can't quite catch it.

"What was that?"

"I do not want Backup to be my friend," she says, only just audibly.

"Come now, Concord, that's not very open-minded of you," Witterson laughs. "If you would give him a chance, I think you will find that Backup can be very fun."

A tousled brown head finally emerges, brown eyes staring at him over the edge of the desk. "No," she repeats. Such a serious, stubborn little thing! The manager has to consciously smooth his face so she won't think he's laughing at her.

"If you like I can talk to Backup, and explain that you don't like it when he bothers you," he compromises.

"Dex doesn't let him bother me anymore," Concord informs him. "He makes Backup go away when he bothers me. But Backup is still mean to Dex." She ducks her head back out of sight, mumbling, "He says he will protect me because I am his friend. Dex is my friend so I will protect him too." One finger curls over the desk. "B is greater than C but W is greater than B. You should make Backup leave Dex alone."

Ahhh. Now Witterson sees what is really the issue here. The boys do love to joke around and tease each other—boys will be boys, as they say, and brothers are the worst. Someone as literal as Concord probably don't realize they're not _really_ trying to hurt each other. So of course when she sees her little boyfriend interacting with the other boys, she assumes the worst.

The difficult part is making this clear to an eight-year-old borderline-Asperger's genius who thinks like a computer.

"It's very good of you to help your friend," he tells her. "I will talk to Backup and explain to him that he's upsetting you. Then perhaps you will give him more of a chance, once you get used to him. And I wouldn't worry about Dex, dear. Boys sometimes say things that sound mean because they are having fun together. I'm sure if he were really bothered he would say something himself."

"No he would not say something," Concord mutters. Abruptly she stands, staring at him fixedly. "Are you going to make Backup leave me and Dex alone or not?"

"As I said, I will talk—"

"Are you going to make Backup leave me and Dex alone or not?" Concord repeats.

It delights him as much as it frustrates him, how dizzying intelligent these children are, how they see through the runaround so easily. How unstoppable they'll be, Witterson thinks, once they get past this immature stage where they see things in such black and white terms!

This daydreaming pause turns out to be a mistake, however, because Concord's little mouth sets and she tosses his calculator back to the desk with a clatter.

"You won't."

"Concord," he says patiently, trying hard not to smile (they're so endearing when they get stubborn like this—they're so convinced they know better), "As I said, I will let Backup know he is upsetting you."

"No. Do not do that." Turning on her heel, the girl marches out of the room, muttering under her breath, "You are _not_ smart."

Witterson stares at the door open-mouthed for a moment, somewhat taken aback by the abrupt and quite negatively-vibed end of their chat. For a moment he considers going after her, but decides that in her present state of anger, that may hurt rather than help. He will get back to her once she's had a chance to calm down. Even the most problematic children always warm up to him eventually.

He smiles, picking up the calculator. How sweet, the way the children are bonding so quickly, are so quick to stand up for each other. No matter how different people are, there are ways for them to connect. Dex and Concord, for example, Witterson could never have predicted that. The two are like peas and carrots, the one with his books and the other with her computers. Witterson himself is not too good with computers, and it is fascinating to him to imagine how such a mind must operate. Idly he punches a few random buttons, musing. How different the world must seem to someone like that—

It takes him a moment to notice that no matter what button he pushes, all the display will show is threes.


	12. Speeding

**AN: Ok, so here's a thing. The outline for this whole story is getting much more, erm, plottish and complicated than was my original plan (as these things seem to tend to do on me) in two senses...one being that the chapters are likely to overlap and/or run into each other and/or continue each other and/or cover the same footage from different perspectives, so to speak, and the other being that the staff may be much more intricately involved that I initially intended. (If there are any kneejerk reactions out there especially to that second point, I'd like to hear it...I've a huge wall of sticky notes with character comments for what have been very peripheral characters and very little idea of whether or not people are interested in seeing them implemented or not.) **

**Also most of my point with this somewhat rambling and confused comment is that this chapter is really the first half of a little two-part clump, of which there may be several more in this story I'm now thinking. So it probably cuts off too abruptly but it's because it's continuing rather than being self-contained.**

**tl;dr - heads up, this is the first of a two-parter so it's a tiny cliffhangerish. also tell me if you'd like to see the staff more or not.  
**

* * *

**12: Speeding**

At first Logan is stupid enough to be excited because after all, a place has been found for him in such a short time and he really didn't think one ever would because when Mum was alive she was always happy to pass him off to people who were paid to watch him and they were constantly passing him down in a pattern he quickly recognized as an order of hierarchy in which the lowest person on the totem pole ultimately got stuck with him. Also it is the first time he has ever been _this _one instead of _that_ one. _That _one as in _that one is having one of his crazy days again, does that woman feed him sugar for breakfast _and _you have to be patient with that one, he won't sit for storytime or clean up when he's supposed to and heaven help you if there's no fruit at snacktime _and _I can see why she didn't have any more after that one!_

No, for once he is _this_ one, pulled aside and with proud hands on his shoulders and presented to a stranger: _this is the one I wrote to you about sir the one who is so good at math yes he's a little hyperactive but he's so brilliant we had him tested but of course you saw the scores, so now that you've seen him what do you think…?_

And that's when Logan wishes he had been a shining _this _one a little more often in the past because _that _leads to _No not this again _and _No you should know better _and _No, dammit, go annoy someone else! _but _this _leads to _Yes he is just perfect, hello Logan my name is Mr. Wammy and I run a very special school for people like you, _and he's never ever been perfect or special before and those words sparkle in the air and on his ears_._ 'People like you' is a very imprecise phrase but he thinks he can pretty safely assume that it implies 'people among whom you will no longer be at sixty-two standard deviations from the norm' and it's such an alien and powerful and desirable notion that Logan says _yes yes that sounds GREAT when can we leave can we go now right now_ and bursts into happy tears.

That doesn't last.

-o-

He is not a genius he is not smart he is stupid stupid stupid and when Mr. W realizes he's made a mistake he will be processed back through the order of hierarchy and Logan (or Jitter rather but he's not sure he'll get to keep that name for long) does not know the parameters of this particular tree structure and thus cannot extrapolate where he might end up except that it will be worse than here and here is bad enough because he is stupid and everyone here knows it or will soon. _Twitch._ Everything was fine when Mr. W was here but then _I have important business to attend to in London but don't be nervous they will take good care of you here you will make friends and have all the math you want _and he was left with Ma Marta, who looks in every way possible different from his mum (skirt vs. slacks and brown vs. red and bear-built vs. razor-built) except for the look on her face that says _that one, that one will cause me trouble, that one will irritate me until I shout._

And he does. He cannot match her sedate waltz step or her turtle-tone marching-drum voice, he is all tarantellegra and every third thought pouring out his mouth as they occur to him (only one third because two thirds simply would not fit at the rate his mouth is physically capable of moving) and spasming like an electrocuted spider out of sheer nerves and oh, how her fingers twitch, how she restrains her sighs. There are children, too, other variables with letter labels and high-IQ values, and there are smiles at first but they are not ticking and switching and dancing about like their feet burn and he can't understand how they can bear to be so still; and there is doubt in their eyes. They are not like him.

No—_he_ is not like _them_. The outlier to the set.

It makes Jitter want to set himself on fire or stop being himself. And both. He lies and says he is tired even though it is 4:17 pm and sunset is not even until 7:23 pm then paces, paces, paces around his room, counting up squares and primes and Fibonacci and down in spiraling sequences.

-o-

He must fall sleep at some point because he wakes up and it is dimming outside.

For a few blessed seconds Jitter lies in bed, holding his breath and afraid to let it out. Gravity cradles him against clean cotton. Voices and footsteps murmur through walls. It is quiet.

If there could be an equation that he could plug himself into to produce moments like this J would work until his eyes bled and he dropped from exhaustion to discover it.

The static burning in his lungs becomes too much, however, and as soon as he sighs explosively and gasps for fresh air the buzzing is back with a _twitch._ As he's rolling out of bed and dashing to the door, potential vectors pop up in his head like mushrooming highway signs: he could go outside, run and run through the yard until he doesn't feel this way anymore, he could try and find other kids and ascertain the full range of points before becoming too despondent about outliers and bell curves, he could find someone and ask about dinner, he is a little hungry now that he thinks about it and could sure go for a snack. An apple, maybe. Or oranges. He prefers oranges. There is something about the symmetry of halved oranges that apples never achieve, sure they taste good but why do grow lopsided so often? And the seeds well you never _know _where they'll end up and so sometimes you have a seed on one side and not the other and that's really just so un—

He doesn't know where the kitchen is though he remembers it being mentioned and so he's sticking his head in random doorways when suddenly all thoughts of oranges and symmetry are chucked unceremoniously out of his head to make room for the blackboard.

Covered in numbers and graphs, it's lovely. J flicks on the classroom light and weaves through the little round tables to stand before it and just admire for a moment.

Someone is working on an equation to describe a dataset and has left it here, not quite completed. Macroeconomics of some sort. It takes him nearly a minute to see why it was temporarily abandoned in this half-built form: whoever was working on it made a mistake early on, and the false assumptions it generated has brought them to an unsolvable impasse.

The twinge it gives him is the same pull most people would feel in their hearts if they encountered an especially cute injured puppy. Diving for chalk and eraser, Jitter immediately sets about fixing it, cleaning out swathes of incorrect notations and filling them back in with his own barely-legible chicken-scratch. There. Much better. It sings now, instead of squinching and twisting in on itself. J tests a few data points to make sure, even though he knows it will work fine; it warms him to see the numbers slide through the equations just like he predicts they will like marbles on a rail.

It could have greater potential, though. Jitter scratches his head thoughtfully, completely oblivious to the chalkdust he's getting in his already tousled red hair. It's ten years of data they're working off of, and though there's definitely a pattern he can sense a broader pattern underneath, like a shadow on a wall. Needs more data points to tease it out, over a longer span of time. Grinning, he starts writing a note to himself to track down whoever started this and ask where they—

"_What_ _you_ _DOIN'_?"

Jitter jumps and whirls around, dropping the chalk. It shatters.

The Asian boy in the doorway is quite a bit shorter than he is, but J has never in his life seen anyone who so strongly resembles a man-eating shark on science fiction steroids. Jumping again a little, he accidentally steps on a broken piece of chalk, making it crack loudly and the other boy is charging down on him like a bloodthirsty bull with this look in his eyes like he'll kill him on the spot with his bare hands.

"What? No can read English? Stupid—" then several lilting words Jitter doesn't understand and "—workin' dat for two day, now you mess it all hell! _Daizi_!"

Belatedly J sees the taped piece of paper on the board which reads _DO NOT ERASE_. He has a perfectly good mathematical explanation, but he's never had quite this many large teeth right in his face and the first horrible thing that bubbles out of his throat is the _Jaws_ theme song scrambled by a nervous giggle, which does nothing to improve the avalanche scale of deterioration in his relationship with his new math friend. This is a situation Logan is all too familiar with, and he braces himself for the expected fist.

What he gets instead is a hard shove that sends him scrambling for balance. Catching himself on a table, he scuttles for the door before the stomping footsteps can catch up to him, hurried on his way by the other boy's snarls of, "Out, get _out_!"

-o-

He flees down the hall down the stairs, clattering past a young woman who tries to ask _Jitter did you want to eat something you missed dinner and we didn't want to wake you_ and after a moment of struggling with the heavy front door he's out in the cool burgundy-violet evening, tearing across the sweet-smelling turf and wishing so hard it hurts that he could fly into a million pieces to scatter and float in the autumn air. Pulling at his hair in agitation, J paces around and around aroundaround. Now if he goes back inside he will probably be murdered. _Twitch._ Maybe he can make it up to the _Jaws_ boy, some adjustment to balance the equation, at least enough to keep him from eating him in his sleep—

Shouts and laughter coming around the corner of the House jolt him out of his frantic thoughts, and for the second time in an hour he belatedly notes the signs of another human presence: a pair of kites, swinging dark against the deepening sky overhead. For a brief moment he can appreciate the dynamics of their movement, the catch of the high-flying box kite on the thermals, the sharp-winged swoop of the hawk-shaped kite, but then the strings anchor down to two boys racing in his direction.

He's met them already, A and B, their alternative variable names escaping out the back door of his brain when he tries to snatch at them and oh no, now they've seen him and their trajectory is one of intent rather than random accident.

Disappearing into the ground is, unfortunately, not possible according to the accepted laws of physics.

"J!" A calls, reeling in his kite as he trots over, B slowing to follow more sedately behind his companion. "How come you missed supper?"

Lies bubble up in his mind, he was in a coma, a very short one but he's feeling much better now but actually perhaps it's coming on again, or he's allergic. To everything. He's actually not allergic to anything that he knows of, but they don't know that so it works until next time he wants to eat and his claim is challenged and even as he considers that, his unruly brain taking a quick detour into thinking about pie and how he's oddly hungry considering how sick he was feeling a moment ago. His stomach growls.

"Say, Jitter, you don't look so good," B says, tilting his head and harpooning him with a look that is much too sharp and heavy to match his easy smile and his kite dives like a stooping falcon to crash-land several meters away. "Oops."

"Aw man, B, if you broke it…."

J's fingers itsy-bitsy together and a nervous giggle stutters out. "Got over the coma," he manages, and their quick smiles utterly fail to mask the raised brows and pointed look they exchange.

"Glad to hear it?" A offers, obviously trying not to laugh.

"This little group is becoming so diverse," B remarks. "You're our first ginge."

"Backup!" A scolds, looking a little embarrassed but also stifling a snigger. "The things you say sometimes…."

"What?" Backup asks innocently. "That's what you call people with orange hair in Britain, isn't it?"

"Well maybe some people, but it's not a _nice_ term."

"It's not?"

"Look, I'll explain it to you later," A says, throwing a semi-apologetic look to a beet-red Jitter.

"I think you're embarrassing him, Alt," B says.

"Well I wasn't trying to."

"But you did, look. If he blushes any harder his face will catch fire. What did you say that upset him so much?"

Jitter could swear their pitying gazes are burning his pale freckled skin.

And as if the numbers weren't stacked against him badly enough, behind the two older boys J sees a brief shutter of gold light as the front door of the House opens and closes, and rather than a grownup coming to the rescue, it's the _Jaws_ kid, glancing about then drawing a clear vector the instant he sees the three of them.

"Oh so dis where party," he calls out, jogging on over to the little group in the dark, as Jitter wonders a little desperately what happens to the bacon when it falls out of the frying pan and into the fire, and then the frying pan falls on top of it. _Twitch. _Three on one, not good odds, not good odds at all. This scene is becoming all too disturbingly familiar and J thinks he should have concentrated harder on disintegrating when he had the chance because the Asian boy is homing right in on him, keen eyes fixed on his target as though he can smell blood in the water.

"Well I'll be going now lots to do you know," Jitter squeaks, his voice climbing in register on every syllable.

"Don't worry, J, it's just Gao," Backup says, noting his fidgeting with raised eyebrows. "He doesn't bite. Usually. Do you, G?"

"What? I do what?"

"Bite," B says, over-enunciating.

"Maybe do maybe don'," Gao says, eyes glittering in the dim light.

Jitter has heard that the best way to disorient a shark is to punch it in the snout but he's pretty sure that's the stupidest thing he could possibly do right now other the obvious fact of being himself and thinking about sharks is really not a good thing to be doing right now but it's hard not to with all this talk of biting and he sure wishes he knew a lot more about marine life, specifically surviving close encounters.

"You know, I think Mr. W did too good a job of naming you, Jitter," Backup says, eyeing him as he hops anxiously, trying to be inconspicuous in his backward shuffle, fingers twisting in a panicky dance. "Good thing you're not T or you might have ended up with a name like Twitchy."

A reaches some invisible limit; he bursts into helpless snickers, trying uselessly to smother them with his palm.

"Ha, ha," Gao says, grinning widely and nodding along. "Dat funny, huh man? Real funny, laughin' at dis guy. Great joke, huh?"

Alt's laughter tapers somewhat. "Yeah, heh," he agrees, giving Gao a sort of odd look but still chuckling weakly.

"Yeah, ha. Great joke," Gao agrees again, then like a coiled spring punches Alt in the jaw.

Jitter has roughly the computing power of a living-room-sized supercomputer so to say something is so astonishing that he can't process it has occurred is saying something quite astounding indeed, but there it is: before he's figured out what the hell has just happened a hand has clamped around his wrist like a vice and they're running, racing back to the House in the dark and he's giggling madly half from surprise and half from nerves and another half (which is not mathematically possible, but there it is) out of adrenaline and he's not the only one. Gao is laughing too as they tear up the turf, a shrill hyena shriek that cracks and stabs at the ears, and between the two of them they probably sound madder than hatters and that's just fine because it seems possible that he's not going to be beat up or killed after all.


	13. Links

**AN: Wowza, sorry it's been so long. Part just that I was incredibly busy this last semester, part that I was just really stuck on this chapter. It's a little thrown together at the end, for which I apologize, but it's been blocking me forever now and I want to move on with this thing. So!**

* * *

**13: Links**

At first G is incensed, of course he is, who the heck do these people think they are, to go around ruining and playing with his work, _his work?_ And he's such a bizarre specimen, like nobody Gao has ever seen not on TV, with hair a fiery orange that looks impossible and twitching around like he's caught in an electric fence, with no explanations and no excuses (not that there are any G would accept) and it's close to his last straw with this place that is just novel enough to be exciting but more than alien enough to set his teeth on edge.

He doesn't have the freedom he's used to anymore. There are bedtimes and mealtimes and all sorts of times. Every ten minutes, someone hovering and bugging him about something. Where is he going? What is he working on? How is it going? Does he need help? How is he settling in? Gao's been taking care of himself for ages. The last thing he needs is dozen parents, but that's what he's suddenly got. More parents than kids in this damn place.

Then there's the obvious matter of the language barrier. Gao has always prided himself on his English, but they all talk so _fast_, and he's used to being the quick one, the slick talker, the one who's three steps ahead, and to suddenly have to concentrate and puzzle over this or that turn of phrase or a jumble of sounds that won't tease out into distinct words, it's just maddening. And of _course _the only two other people who speak a civilized language in this place are that frigid bat of a mute and the sallow old IT guy, whose accent is heavy and who is no fun to talk to anyway.

Not to mention English food is crap. He'd just about kill someone for some good old Beijing street fare.

And now there's _this_ weird guy, with his weird jarring giggle and his weird specky skin and his _handwriting all over G's homework_. And maybe it's not a final straw in the grand scheme of things but for today, today it's more than enough weirdness.

'Course then he actually reads what that whacko wrote, trying to figure out what he'd destroyed to fix it, and realizes it's far from destroyed.

Gao plucks at his lip, staring unblinkingly at the blackboard with his head tilted. Genius. Absolute genius. Oh, sure, they're all geniuses, but _this_, this is _gold_. Brilliant. Priceless. Now available for his convenience. In the space of, what, it can't have been more than minutes, the weirdo has unraveled and rewoven a set of equations that have been the bane of his existence for the last two days.

A different sort of person would be affronted, their pride wounded. But there's nothing profitable in that way of thinking, now is there?

No, it rattles sweetly into place in his mind like the little white ball settling in the right roulette wheel slot.

Gao decides he can deal with weird.

Grinning, G goes to track down the extremely useful nutjob he's gone and scared off. He's pretty sure he heard the stairs thundering—

"J went that way," a dazy little voice says. It's E, coming up the hall behind him. Eyes on the floor, fingers trailing along the wall as she walks carefully, placing her feet so that they are only on one floorboard at a time. When he looks back at her, she points at a downward angle through the House toward the front yard. "He's on the Titanic. Bring a life jacket."

"Tanks E, you my favorite!" Grinning, G tosses her a salute and dashes off on the hunt.

-o-

They're still laughing madly as they pound back up the stairs. The look on Alt's face! Gao would have liked to clock Backup instead, or also, but A had been closest. Pity.

Eh, another opportunity is bound to open up. Barely a day goes by that he doesn't want to pop one or the other in the mouth.

Both of them nearly go bowling over when J halts like a puppet whose strings have been snagged, rattling off something so quickly that all Gao catches is a panicked "—trouble!" His face is nearly as red as his hair, something G has never seen before.

"Trouble _if_ dey find us," he assures his rescuee smugly. "Come on!"

-o-

From the roof they can faintly hear Marta storming around like a tiger, shouting their letters and prowling the dorm in search of them. Gao bites his hand until the vessels break beneath the skin trying not to shriek with laughter, occasionally whacking Jitter in the shoulder when the other can't contain his giggling. Finally she takes her search downstairs, and they can breathe again.

"I can't believe you did that, I mean, thanks, you really—Wow. Do you think they'll—why did you do that?" J's stringy fingers knot together as some thought strikes him. "Why did you do that? Guess I really looked like I needed help, guess I—why did you do that? Why did you help me?"

Gao tilts his head, unable to stop the half-smile that cracks one side of his face. Smart, he thinks, though not as clever or fast on his feet as G. Perfect sidekick. "Why you tink?"

There's a short, suspicious silence.

"I know what they—I know what people think about me," Jitter blurts. One hand scrabbles a frenetic tattoo on the rooftiles, while the one other trembles with the effort of not joining in. "I'm not, I'm not, I'm not helpless, I'm not _stupid_, I can tell what they're—I just can't—I can't—_ugh!_" With a snarl of frustration he punches the roof, shaking the pain out for only an instant before launching back into his mad tapping. "I just can't _stop_!"

"Den don' stop," Gao scoffs, throwing up his hands. "So dey tink you don' know what you about, so what? Screw dem! I see dat work you do wid da numbers, I know. You smart, dat _fact_. Or Mr. Wa would not bring you here, eh? All dey got is opinion. What dat? Bullcrap and balls, dat what!"

Jitter giggles madly through gritted teeth. "I know, I know I knowIknow." Dropping back to lie flat on the roof with a thump, he presses his hands to his face, but he's too worked up to lie still like that so he abruptly sits up again. Gao huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

"Man, you all on fire, not jus' you head."

"Two hundred forty-eight degrees centigrade."

The other boy raises a brow. "Eh, what dat, man?"

"Two hundred and—it's—temperature at which human skin ignites. Do you know they think spontaneous human combustion occurs over several hours? Too slow for a barbeque." J giggles nervously. "All those broken dishes…."

"You gonna start a cannibal place?"

"What? No, I—sorry, I'm just, I, cow on the train track, you know?"

"Yeah man, I getcha," Gao says, wincing a little at the mental image. "But you no train crash, just way ahead on de track. Dat good." He claps his new sidekick on the shoulder. "You stick wi' me. I help you, you help me, _hao ba_?"

"Yeah, I—ha. That sounds really great. Thanks. Yeah."

Does he need help?


	14. Schism

**Well I hope this, um, works. I've been kind of ambivalent about how involved the adults of the House should be in the plot, and if so which ones, which is part of why I sort of halted this last summer and have been so slow to get rolling again. Now I have kind of a vague arc for this whole thing, and I'm thinking it'll be closer to 45 chapters all told. **

* * *

**14: Schism**

"Ah, that's everyone, excellent," Witterson says cheerfully as Gavin steps into the headmaster's brightly lit office. "Please have a seat, Gavin, and we'll get started."

The rest of the permanent staff are already there, ringed around the room in a motley assortment of chairs borrowed from the dining hall and the nearest classroom: Matron Marta, gracing him with a hawkish look for his tardiness; Addison, the librarian, his lanky limbs sprawling from a chair too short for him; Chef Constance, looking like she'd rather be up and about doing something productive; Chegal, the sour-faced securities chief; Hopkins, the gnarled old treestump of a groundskeeper; Nurse Verity, waiting as placidly and unflappably as a saint; Barton, the technician, giving him a curt nod as he crosses the room; and of course Moira, his fellow aide.

"Sorry for holding things up," the young man says, taking the last seat, between Moira and Verity. The other aide elbows him lightly, amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth, and he elbows her right back.

"Not at all. You're right on time," Witterson assures him, ignoring Hopkins' snort. The headmaster, a comfortably built man with sleek grey hair and perpetually rolled-up sleeves, claps his hands together.

"Here we go, everyone! Tomorrow's the day we've all been preparing for. I've been delighted to have the chance to get to know you all over the last month, and I'm confident that everyone in this room will do this institution credit as we embark on the mission that Mr. Wammy has brought us together to work toward.

"Quillsh has confirmed his travel plans and expects to arrive with L and our first student tomorrow morning around ten. I'll go over the details after the reports—though I would like to remind everyone again, but we must all remember not to overwhelm or over-patrol either of the boys. L is very busy with his work, and Alternate and the others who follow will here to learn and develop their unique minds. So they must be given plenty of leeway to follow their whims—"

"—Within reason," Marta interjects, clearly still leery of the notion of children going about doing whatever their precocious little brains take a fancy to.

"—to follow their own whims," Witterson repeats, grinning, "as is set forth in the policy, because we are trying to inspire them, not program them to be regular members of society. This is Wammy's House, not an orphanage, and we have a policy of minimum intervention."

Hopkins doesn't even _try_ to stifle his snort this time. Addison and Constance both look as though they'd like to comment, but Witterson doesn't pause, moving right along into the reports.

Gavin glances sideways to see that Moira is chewing her lip thoughtfully. They've talked over the minimum intervention policy several times and pretty well kicked it into the ground. He's pretty sure most everyone has. Witterson has stated in previous staff meetings that House policy will always be flexible as they all gain experience and learn what's working and what's not, but this is already emerging as a toe-stubber that a few people really don't like, but doesn't look to be going anywhere soon.

"I think the thing is to treat them like really independent younger siblings that need a hand once in a while instead of trying to be a surrogate parent," he'd said a couple weeks ago, as the two of them were hauling a desk between them into one of the dorm rooms. He and his ex-wife had barely had time to even think about kids before the divorce, so it wasn't too hard to not think like a parent.

"That's probably a good model," Moira had said, voice straining a little as they took the last few steps with the heavy desk. "Jeez, were they going for the heaviest furniture they could find? Where I get a little caught up—" she paused as they carefully set the desk down and shift it into place. "Is with how that might affect their social and psychological development. We don't want to end up with _Lord of the Flies_ on our hands. I mean—well."

Instead of finishing the thought, she shrugged. Gavin got where she was coming from, however: whether they agreed completely or not with his methods, almost everyone here had been saved from the frying pan or the fire by Mr. Wammy, and had their own personal reasons not to look the gift horse in the mouth.

And who wouldn't want to be part of a potentially game-changing experiment like this? Some of it went against conventional wisdom, sure, but that's was innovation was about. And besides, the conventional seemed to go out the window whenever L was involved.

Witterson wraps up the financial and administrative reports, then Marta, Hopkins, Chegal, Barton, and Addison give quick status reports on the states of their respective domains. Even though he's been dealing with the preparations hands-on for the last few weeks, it's exciting to hear it all summarized. Almost all the library materials have arrived and are mostly processed and shelved; twenty of the dorm rooms, three of the classrooms, and the administrative offices are completely furnished. The rest of the kitchen and cleaning staff are scheduled to start this week; another of the new tutors arrived yesterday; most of the media lab equipment has either been delivered or is expected to arrive in the next week; and three days ago the workmen finally completed the installation of the lap pool.

The House is finally starting to look like one. They can walk through the halls without having to dodge and weave around wires and boxes and furniture waiting to be put away. They can talk without having to shout over the sounds of power drills and hammering. The plaster and sawdust from the renovations has been swept away, all the windows in the new wing finally have blinds and curtains, and the phone system Chegal took apart to add mysterious security-related boxes and wires to is up and running again.

It's been a lot of work, but Gavin thinks they're actually going to be ready in time. It's been a miracle that they've kept so well to the schedule that Wammy set forth. He can't remember ever being on any other project that was so well timed, with so few setbacks.

"Alright," Witterson finally says. "Any other reports…? No? Excellent, then. Regarding tomorrow. L and Watari treating the House as their headquarters for the foreseeable future, though Quillsh expects they may be traveling frequently. He in fact will only be here long enough to settle L in, as he has been contacted about a promising student candidate in America. And of course, our first student, Alternate, will be joining us. There was discussion of holding a small welcome reception—"

Even Witterson looks like he has to put some effort into ignoring the groundskeeper's sound of disgust at this suggestion.

"—but on further thought, Quillsh and I have decided that less would be more in this situation. He and I will show Alternate around the place together, and introductions can be made gradually, so not to overwhelm him. Needless to say, the balance of students to staff is bound to be strange for everyone for the first several months. Especially in this initial phase, as we staff far outnumber our students, it is vital that we give him—and those that follow over the coming weeks—plenty of space.

"Some of you have expressed…concerns over the minimum intervention policy." His eyes skate around the room. As soon as they pass by Constance and Marta, the two women exchange the look that Gavin usually catches between them when Hopkins tracks mud into the House, and beside him Verity straightens almost imperceptibly in her seat. "To accommodate your concerns and address some of your questions, I have written out a more complete set of best practices and specific guidelines, which can be found in the policy book, and will be put on the House intranet in digital form as soon as it's running. I highly recommend everyone read it in full. For now, I will cover the highlights.

"Mealtimes, bedtime, and class times will be regulated for the convenience of day to day running, but at all other times students should be given free rein to use their time as they please.

"Physical contact for any reason is strongly discouraged unless vital to the physical safety of the student or initiated by the student." Marta's frown deepens, and the divot Gavin is coming to recognize as incredulity prints between Moira's brows. So much for teaching the boys to wrestle.

"Intervention in student disputes is only to be exercised in the event of physical harm, major intentional damage to property, or the request of the student—"

"Excuse me," Addison finally cuts in, unable to keep his thoughts contained to foot-tapping, "for interrupting, Allen, but the scope of this policy is rather radical. I have seen far too many examples of how children treat each other without intervention. Having a high IQ does not put someone above pointless cruelty. Far from it. I'm certain we can exercise some level of discipline without—"

"Their own ambition will shape their discipline," Witterson halts him. "_I'm _certain they will be far too engaged with their intellectual pursuits to turn to petty quarrels for entertainment."

For the first time in the brief month Gavin has known him, the librarian's voice actually rises to a volume that could be called aggressive. "That is the most ridiculous—"

Witterson's brows jump, and Constance clears her throat loudly. Addison visibly bites back and swallows his frustration.

"I'm sorry if the mission of this House has become unpalatable to you, Addison," Witterson says politely. "If at any time you wish to either discuss your thoughts on how we can improve privately with me or Mr. Wammy, or if you choose to leave the institution, you of course are welcome to do so."

_Whoa_. Gavin wants to glance over to see how Moira is reacting, but doesn't want to draw attention in the brittle stillness that slams down on the office.

"Thank you," Addison says finally, crossing his legs and folding his long fingers together. "I will bear that in mind."

"If I may continue?" Looking around the ring, Witterson meets no other protests. Not out loud, at any rate. It doesn't take much fishing around for Gavin to come up with a few people he doubts will be following policy to the letter. "Moving along, then…."


	15. Seed

**15: Seed**

Stop. Something must be explained outright.

This was the start the root the seed:

L was only human. And only human was not much to be.

Not by Beyond's estimation, not by a long shot. For all the mystery, the big gothic letters, the silly, gaudy quirks, the cutesy little acts and blank stares—the winding thought processes, knotted and obscure yet clean and clicking and fitting together like zipper teeth, dribbled and driveled out in that stale voice because he just couldn't keep his big fat brain contained in that fragile skull—and the eyes, the damned staring _eyes_ all the time, watching and cataloging and _judging_, L was just another human. Stunted in his ability as an Empath, but an Empath nonetheless.

Inferior.

And yet _he_ was the one labeled 'Backup'. A backup to _that? _To that—

The ego of it was downright insulting: that a successor would be wanted for this specimen—and not just found, not just trained, but molded from very childhood, selected from among dozens so molded and twisted; that any but the single best, from those who broke from being forced into that mold to those who were just not close enough would be tossed aside. Unworthy.

Laughing did not come naturally to Beyond, but there was amusement folded somewhere into his disgust for the idea. As if _he_ needed to inherit a name! He, whose eyes had _real_ power!

_Damn your eyes_, he had read as a curse in older English novels, and found it quite appropriate.

There were two types of anger, for Beyond. The red-hot, hissing. The cold, hard, dark. The crackling rage, always immediately quenched like a tempered blade in water to crystallize into something clear, purposeful, and enduring: a tool, a grudge, a goal.

L never saw how extraordinary Beyond was. Thin lips pursed whenever Beyond spoke, as though there was something almost undetectably off in his custard, a not-quite-rotten egg or old milk. Those dark, glassy eyes always skated over him, always dubious and resigned to humoring Mr. Wammy. Then they would land on Alt, and reconsider:

_Well, maybe_, they would say reluctantly. Thoughtfully. Maybe_ these badgering children are worthwhile._

As if _he _needed his worth estimated by a mere human.

L left a mere two weeks after Beyond's arrival, of course, after the _incident_, and did not come back. Silently fed up with the idea of heirs and successors. But maybe not with Alt.

Beyond would never be a successor to anyone, of that he was certain. He was second to no one, and certainly not to Lawliet. He was far, far better.

But he had been branded and judged in a fashion that was unforgivable. And for that, Beyond would have his vengeance. Perhaps he couldn't destroy L himself, not here, not yet. Later.

First, the backups and the machine that created them. Then, the genuine article.


	16. Glare

**16: Glare**

Icarus doesn't want friends, or siblings, or companions. She doesn't care about hanging out with the other students here, doesn't communicate with them any more than she has to. They're competition. And they're nothing like her. They're not interesting to her.

There are a few things she's noticed she has in common with one or another of them, of course. Icarus is almost certain that Even can really _hear_ things, possibly better than she can, though she's not certain enough to have brought it up with the girl. Jitter and Gao both share her love of math, but separately they're irritating at best, and together they make her want to stab something small and fluffy. At times she can appreciate Fallon's sarcastic sense of humor, but the very sound of his strident, too-enthusiastic, too-loud voice just sets her teeth on edge.

None of these things are enough to make her want to reach out, not enough to quell smoldering annoyance that crawls under her skin whenever any of them are around her. Especially when they can't shut up, either out loud or otherwise.

Coffee, now. That's a real motivator to team up.

Witterson is always saying they can do whatever they want, but it's rubbish. Sure, they can do more than their parents ever let them do (Icarus's scowl deepens at the reminder, and she mentally kicks herself), but there are still rules. Invisible rules, not written down, but constantly repeated and (albeit patchily) enforced. Constance and Ma Marta are the ones who really are in charge from day to day, and Constance and Ma Marta have both said in no uncertain terms that that coffee will stunt their growth.

It's agonizing. A year ago, Icarus had never even _heard_ of coffee.

But at least the brat who introduced her to the stuff is just as driven to get up early and steal a taste of their mutual addiction. In the classroom, C is her enemy. Their skillsets are similar, which makes them natural rivals. They're constantly trying to outmaneuver each other to get the best computers in the media lab. They play pranks on each other ranging from kind of funny to irritating to outright sabotage. Once Concord even planted a virus in one of Icarus's assignments that, when Icarus ran the program, replaced every single file in her homework folder with a .txt containing nothing but a frowny-face. For a brief half hour in the morning, however, it's acceptable to look past that struggle for the sake of caffeine.

They're nearly-silent shadows in the dark, cold kitchen, the hush of the water facet seeming thunderous in the 4 AM stillness as Concord scrubs clean the pot of the coffee maker. Icarus takes both mugs (hers black, C's heavily doctored with sugar) and hurries out the back door with them. Out in the dark, foggy yard, they're less likely to be caught, and it's less likely the warm aroma of coffee will fill up the room and give them away. As far as they know, they haven't tipped off Constance or any of the other staff yet, but they can't be too careful.

Despite the care they always take, Icarus can't help but feel a little paranoid most mornings. Electricity prickles the back of her neck and ears. Icarus figures it is probably just the chilly predawn fog that swathes the yard, and it's only natural to feel like you're being watched when you're trying not to get caught. While waiting for Concord, Icarus idly rubs the back of her neck and leans out slightly from the wall, scanning the windows.

Less than a minute later, Concord closes the door carefully and joins her. The other girl's gaze follows hers.

"What?" C's voice is less than a whisper, a whisp of fog. _Do you see something?_

She thought she'd seen a curtain shift, but it could have just been a trick of the mist. And though she pushed, she didn't _hear _anything either… Shaking her head curtly, she hand off the sweet-sludged mug of coffee to her partner in crime, trying to ignore the glaring feeling of being watched that burns the back of her neck.

-o-

It's a hallway window, on the second floor, next to the library. The floorplan of the House prints itself in 3d in her mind, fitting up against the scattering of windows on the outside wall and clicking like puzzle pieces. It's silly, and she should go back to her room and pretend to get up in an hour, but after she and C part ways Icarus takes a detour to check the window in question.

As expected, nobody is there. Smoothing the curtain aside, her eyes skim over the glass, looking for smudges or fingerprints. Nothing.

Silly. If Moira or Gavin happened to see them, they would have come out. And nobody else is awake yet. Constance, maybe, but the kitchen would be the first place the cook would go anyway. Not this random hallway.

The glaring feeling returns, accompanied this time by the brief hush-hush of bare feet on carpet. Calmly, Icarus looks over her shoulder to find Backup in the doorway of the library, looking back at her.

"Good morning, Icarus," he says cheerfully.

Icarus has good hearing. And people are loud, even when they're trying to be quiet. She didn't hear any footsteps, not more than one. The certainty that he must have been standing right around the corner makes her face set like ice, narrow-eyed and twisted mouth turning down in a scowl.

On an annoyingness scale of Concord to Fallon, B is about in the middle. He hardly ever echoes, which is a bit strange but also a relief; his out-loud voice more than makes up for it, though. It oozes and tastes like thick, sugary syrup. Icarus has never liked sweet things.

And he stares at people through windows, evidently. Her scowl deepens when he opens his mouth to blather more.

"It's pretty early. What are you doing up?" Casually, he sticks his hand in his pajama pockets and saunters over to join her at the window.

_Ignoring you,_ she signs irritably, finishing off with a dismissive flicking motion as she passes him and heads back down the hall. Part of her wants to confront him about spying on her and Concord, but that would involve prolonged talking to him, and everything that comes out of his mouth is sticky jam-words and nonsense. She doesn't want to gum up her ears with his stupid voice. Not to mention he has an idiotic habit of deliberately misunderstanding her signing. Later, perhaps, she'll find another way to get back at him.

"Well you don't need to be so mean," B sulks. "Isn't all that coffee supposed to cheer people up in the morning?"

Yeah, rub it in. Weirdo. How long has he been getting up early to watch them? Icarus wonders as she turns the corner, out of his sight. Did he just happen to see them one morning, or hear them, or did he somehow figure it out? Why would he bother anyway? He hasn't told on them, so what's the point? Or does he make a habit of watching people?

The more Icarus thinks about it, the weirder it seems, and for once she actually wishes he _did_ echo more so she could get an idea of what his motives might be. Keeping her face set makes it easier to hide that she's slightly shaken. Though she's not sure who exactly she's hiding it from at the moment.


	17. author note

Bluhhhhh ok so here's the thing.

I haven't thought about this fic in ages and I've actually been trying to spend less time fanning and more time being invested in RL, so the chances that I'll ever come back and finish it are almost zero. Sorry. BUT I had done a lot of planning of the story arc and stuff and I have four complete chapters (written all the way like a year and a half ago ahaha oh God) that were meant to be kind of spread throughout the rest of the fic, one about B and three kind of centered around Dex's character arc. And I figure why waste the time I spent writing them and never posting. So here they are, somewhat out of context, ludicrously belated, and a lousy replacement for finishing but oh well it's what I got.

ETA: also in response to kaitlyn: by Empath Beyond is referring to what we might call 'normal' people who experience empathy, which from his perspective is very strange.

+love

sarapsys


	18. Creep

**Creep**

"Sure," Gao is saying. "I see dat one, alla time. Dey hide under you bed. Grab you feet when you walk in dark."

"No, they don't," Linda says stubbornly. Gao is smiling, and smiling means joking, and so he must be joking, right? Because she's never seen anything lurking under her bed, except things she's shoved under there herself, and certainly no monsters.

Though it could just be difficult to see them in the dark. And he does seem to know an awful lot about them….

"Sure. Got dey big grabby green arms, and dey long pokey fingers, and dey getcha jus' like dat!" He snaps his fingers under her nose and she jumps involuntarily, clutching her doodle pad. "I had a frien' got all eated up by a pack'a dem. Din't find anyting but he big toe."

"Nuh-uh!"

"Monsters under the bed?" Brow crooked and hands in his pockets, B strolls into the common room.

Abruptly Gao's sly grin looks much less like a smile, and much more like a sharkish baring of his teeth. "Sure, Backup. Friends for you down there, eh?"

"That's a really pretty picture, Linda," B says softly, ignoring the comment and leaning down close to peer at her sketchpad over her shoulder. His dark blonde hair brushes her cheek. Too close. She shifts away a little, holding the drawing out as though she moved so he could see better. "It's the best chicken drawing I've ever seen."

It's not a chicken. It's a finch she's been watching through the window. Crushed, she says, "Oh. …Thanks."

"Shouldn't tell lies like that to little kids, G," Backup says, his attention shifting to Gao. "There's no such thing as monsters that hide under the bed."

"I don' know about dat, Backup, you sure you not crawlin' under someone bed? Seem like you kinda place."

"That wasn't a very nice thing to say," B says with a hurt frown. "I'm just trying to tell you that it's not very kind of you to try to scare an impressionable child like Lin. She doesn't know when you're only making things up."

"I do so," Linda says a little crossly, hugging her finch to her chest. He's talking like she isn't even there, even though he's still hanging over her shoulder. Scowling, she scoots away from both of them and stomps over to the windowseat, curling up like a hedgehog. Stupid older boys, they're worse than her brother ever was. Can't she get a minute to herself to just color a little bit without them teasing her?

"Poor you," Gao tells Backup, still with that unsmiling shark-grin. He seems to have stopped blinking, as though silently challenging the other boy to a staring contest. "Such a softy-skin."

"Did you know," B says conversationally, like he didn't hear the insult, "that smoking cigarettes deposits tar in the lungs? If it builds up enough, it's almost like you're drowning yourself in the stuff, one little bit at a time. A slow, sticky suicide. Funny. If I thought you were bent on self-destruction, I'd guess you would pursue something more…titillating."

Linda's ears perk at that tasty bit of gossip. Gao's been smoking? Ooh, Mama Marta would be _so mad_….

"Find out alla kinda thing while creepin' under beds, don't you, Backup," Gao says, razor-edged. Breaking his one-sided staring contest, he strides for the door. "Come on, Lin, let the creeper alone."

"No," Linda says crossly, peering over her sketchpad at him. He's been making up stupid stories to upset her—_probably_ made up—and anyway, the finch might fly away at any time from where he is now, still perched happily in the tree outside the window, and then how will she finish her drawing?

"Well whatever then," he snaps, and leaves.

"He has such a temper," B sighs, slumping down on one of the sofas and opening the book he's brought with him.

"Is that true?" Linda asks, unable to help herself. "About the cigarettes?"

"Oh, yes," Backup smiles, flipping through his book and holding it up for her to see. The picture he points to looks like a blob of oily black slime, or something gunked up out of a nasty swamp puddle. "See?"

She _meant_ about Gao smoking in the House, not the gross bit about the tar. "…Ew," she manages, and he laughs.

"This books has all sorts of interesting things in it," he says, as her eyes break off the disgusting picture only to be caught by his oily black stare. "So many things can go wrong with the human body. Fascinating, isn't it?"

"…Sounds gross to me," Linda mumbles. "I don't like your book."

"Why not? Knowing how things hurt us help people like doctors fix people," Backup points out. "If your lungs looked like that, wouldn't you want to your doctor to know how to help you? Wouldn't you want him to have seen it before?"

"My lungs won't ever look like that," she objects, nauseated at the very idea.

"So many things can go wrong," he repeats, like she didn't say anything. "Did you know that there's a species of worm that can make your lungs look almost exactly like that? Once they get inside the patient, they breed and grow in the lungs, all black and slimy, just like that."

"I don't believe you." Shuddering a little, Lin turns back to her drawing.

"Why would I lie to you?" Backup says, sounding hurt. "I don't make up silly lies just to scare people like Gao does, Lin. It's science. I'm telling you because I thought you would be interested. If you don't believe me, there's a picture in the book, I can show—"

"No, I don't want to see it," Linda says quickly, shuddering, but it's too late; her mind's eye is exceptionally sharp and creative, and already she can picture it, squirmy black worms wriggling and oozing and sucking up people's insides.

"They crawl into your nose and mouth when you're sleeping," B rambles on, apparently reading from the book. "So small you can barely even see them at first. Isn't that amazing?"

"Amazing," she echoes, glancing back out the window for her little muse. The finch is gone.

-o-

After Stella tucks her in and turns out the light, she can still picture the worms.

Curled down into the covers, the little girl wipes quickly at her face with her hands, almost certain she's going to encounter slimy little specks. It's dark. She wants to turn the light back on. Even if they're barely visible, she might see the little dots of black against white sheets. If they're even real. Which they're not. Maybe. Or maybe not. Or…

Slipping out of bed, she scuttles across the room clutching her pillow and flips the light back on.

There doesn't seem to be anything in the sheets. Linda flips through them, shaking them just in case. From the corner of her eye she notices a tiny black spot on the pillow she's holding and drops it like she's been scalded, muffling her shriek in her hands.

Upon closer inspection, the black speck turns out to be a shred of lint.

Flicking it off and hugging the pillow to herself again, Lin gives in. She can't sleep like this.

Dex's door cracks open slightly a few moments after she starts tapping at it, quietly but hurriedly. A quizzical brown eye peers down at her for a moment before he opens it completely.

"Lin?" he says. He's in his pajamas, but he's got an open book in his hand, and she had already seen the line of light under his door in the dim hallway. He's sure to be up for hours yet, reading. For a moment he seems completely nonplussed. "…Can I help you?"

"I can't sleep," she squeaks, voice muffled in her pillow.

"Then don't. Draw or something."

"But I'm tired."

"So go sleep with Moira."

"But she's sleeping. She won't know if something happens," Linda says, staring up at the older boy entreatingly. "You're awake anyway. Can't I sleep in your room?"

Dex stares for a long time, then sighs resignedly. "Fine. But I'm reading, so don't bother me. If you want a bedtime story go find Stella or Jerzy."

With a breath of relief Linda shuffles in, and he shuts the door behind her. "And what do you mean, if something happens? Is Gao making up stories again?"

"Yeah but they were stupid. He's not scary."

D knows everything, so as he leans back at the head of his bed, propping open his book, she clambers in between him and the wall and asks, "Dex, are there worms that crawl in people's noses and eat their lungs?"

Dex frowns down at her. "Maybe in the tropical zone. Not in England that I know of. Is that what you're worried about? Who told you that?"

"It was in B's book."

His mouth goes tight, and she feels him tense. "You should never believe anything Backup tells you, Lin. He's only trying to upset you."

"But it was in the book—"

"Did you see it?"

"No," she scoffs, "I didn't want to!"

"It's not in his book. He was making it up. Just stay away from Backup, ok?"

"You're not the boss of me," Linda says drowsily. She's not completely convinced that the little black worms aren't real, but if they try to get her, Dex will see and stop them. She's safe here.

"Go to sleep, I said you could come in if you wouldn't bother me," D mutters, turning a page. "And I'm older, so yes I am."

"Are not," she mumbles as she dozes off.


	19. Suffocate

Dex isn't sleeping well.

Concord can hear him, tossing and turning in the infirmary bed next to hers. He oughtn't jostle himself about like that, she thinks, he might rip out his stitches.

She would like to fall asleep, but between the concentration of not moving at all (her own injuries twinge painfully whenever she shifts) and the rustling of Dex's sheets and the catches of his breath, mumbled half-words and the occasional _no, no, stop_, C has not been able to doze off.

So instead she lies very, very still, and attempts to fix her eyes on a single blade of the ceiling fan, following it round, round, round. It's difficult, because the fan is moving just slightly faster than her eyes can track it. After two nights of practice, she can still only make a turn and a half before she loses it.

As far as mindless distractions go, it's pretty effective.

And in any case, she never sleeps much. Hardly any of them do, really. Even now, if she listens very carefully, she can hear Jitter pacing in his room, which is above the far side of the infirmary. Occasionally bare feet pad almost silently down the hall. Three hours ago Jerzy and Stella went by, and she overheard them mentioning Hopper's back to watching the Weather Channel again. Just when they thought he was starting to get over that phobia. And last night, Linda came back down again to the infirmary to crawl into bed with Concord and never fell asleep.

She pushes these thoughts away, redoubling her efforts with the fan. As long as she doesn't think about anything, Concord can pretend nothing has happened.

She's up to nearly two full turns and starting to develop that familiar staring headache when Dex gasps sharply. He kicks out, but his feet are tangled in the sheets, and he begins to thrash in earnest as though panicked.

If C weren't already making an effort not to move a muscle, she'd freeze. Dex is almost certainly going to hurt himself like this.

"Dex," she whispers. "Dex, wake up."

It has no effect. After dithering over it for a few seconds, she props herself up on one elbow, slowly and carefully. "_Dex_," Concord repeats as loudly as she dares. She's not concerned about someone hearing her shouting—that might actually be a good thing, if Verity heard and came to see what was going on. Concord could just never bring herself to speak above a quiet conversational tone. Her loudest is not enough.

With painstaking slowness, automatically pressing one hand to her stitches as though to hold them in place and hissing a little in pain, Concord pushes herself up into a sitting position, easing one foot down to the floor. The linoleum of the infirmary is freezing cold compared to the warmth of her bed, but she shuffles the few feet to sit on the very edge of D's cot, combs her fingers back through his hair until she has a decent handful, and yanks.

"Aah! What? _What_?" He jolts upright, gasping for breath, and nearly cracks their skulls together. Then, just as abruptly, he doubles over, clamping a hand to his injury. "Oww."

Startled, Concord slowly lets go of his hair. "Yes," she agrees, the only thing she can think of to say.

Dex peers at her in the darkness, still not completely with it. His face looks odd without his glasses, Concord thinks, and pretty blurry without hers on. She can't make out his expression.

"Oh. Concord. Right, right, we—the infirmary. Right. What is it? Are you alright?"

"Yes," C says.

"Um. Good." He settles carefully back against his pillow, gasping a little. "Um…what are you doing on my bed?"

"Waking you up."

Dex stifles a sigh. "Yes. Why? Is something wrong?"

"You were moving around. You might have torn your stitches."

"Oh." Even in the dark and without her glasses, she can see that Dex is flushing, looking away. "Well, thank you."

Ah, this one Concord knows. "You're welcome."

"Sorry if I woke you up."

"I wasn't asleep."

"Bad dreams?" Dex asks, after a hesitant beat.

C shakes her head. "No. I just haven't slept. But you were having a bad dream."

It strikes her how exhausted he looks from this angle, face pale even in the darkness and shadows under his eyes. "…I dreamt _he_ was suffocating me," Dex whispers, seeming embarrassed by the admission. Though C can't understand why. It had been pretty obvious to her that D had been having a nightmare, and Backup, well—when he had existed in her life, he was pretty much a nightmare even in waking hours.

She doesn't like being reminded of him. Concord folds her arms around herself, as though that can block him out. "He's gone now."

"Yes…." Dex doesn't seem comforted by this. If anything, it seems to make him anxious. "We should have plans, in case he comes back."

"He won't come back."

"We can't possibly know that. We should be prepared for anything."

"You said last night that L was gonna catch him," C points out. "Did you change your mind?"

"I dunno, I just…" Dex sighs. "I don't know, Concord. I just don't think we should underestimate him again."

"He has no reason to come back here," Concord says.

"We can't know what he might have to gain in going or returning," Dex argues. "I think," he says, his voice lowering, "I think he would come back to try to hurt other students."

Concord has to think about it for a while. "You don't _think_ he will come back. You're scared he'll come back."

"I'm not scared," says Dex, and it's like he's a completely different person than the Dex she knows—he doesn't sound confident and determined. He sounds defensive, disheartened, so much so that even C can pick up on it.

"I can tell you're upset but I don't know why," Concord tells him reluctantly. Reluctantly, because she has an inkling that it's about all the things she's pretending have not happened in the last few days, and she doesn't want to stop pretending just yet. She wants to just stick to the fact that Backup is gone and be happy about it. Without all the other stuff, all the bad stuff. They can all just forget it now.

Dex is quiet for a long time, while C waits and worries about what he might say.

"I don't want to talk about it," he finally says.

Well, that settles that issue. With a pained grunt, Concord eases back to her feet and shuffles on back to her own bed, murmuring as she goes, "Don't worry. Mr. W won't let anything bad happen."

"I'm not _worried_, I just think we should take all possibilities into account."

She doesn't have anything to say to that. Concord burrows back down into the covers, sighing. Dex sighs too. He's still upset, and she doesn't want him to be. She ought to say something that will make him feel better but she doesn't know what. How is she supposed to fix something if she doesn't know the source of the problem?

Darn it.

"Dex, just tell me what's wrong. You say you don't want to talk about it but you're still thinking about it and it's making you sad. I don't understand why you can't tell me. You're my friend. I don't want you to be sad."

Dex doesn't answer right away, and when she looks over at him, she finds that he's looking back at her.

"It's just," he says, in a measured tone, "Even is right. I knew Backup was trouble over a year ago, but I never really _did_ anything about it." Dex pauses, then goes on stiffly, "I should have…I should have gone to Witterson, or Marta. But I was too much of a coward."

Concord frowns. "No, Dex. That's wrong. You're the bravest person I know. And I tried to talk to Witterson, and he wouldn't listen to me."

"But Addison might have listened," D burst out. "Or if _all_ of us had come forward, Witterson would have _had_ to listen. Or—we could have set up a trap, and _proved_ that he was evil. There were things we could have done. There were things I could have tried, and I did _nothing_. I told Mr. W I would keep an eye on things and I let him down, and you got hurt, and Alt is _dead_, and we couldn't even catch him. We're supposed to be L's successors, and the first chance we have to catch the bad guy, a real one, we let him get away."

The boy falls silent. Concord doesn't know what to say. She's not entirely sure she understands, except that somehow Dex feels bad. Staring up at the ceiling fan, spinning in the darkness, she aches and puzzles over what on earth sort of argument she needs to make to change his mind.

"It's not your fault, Dex," she finally says, a long time later, but he's already fallen asleep again.


	20. Child

**Child**

Backup is just another kid, Dex has to remind himself, a kid who's doing bad things to the people around him—the people D promised Mr. W he'd look out for. It's that last part that makes him brace himself to knock.

There's a long pause, until Dex starts to wonder if Backup is not actually in his room. Just as he's thinking of going off in search of him, the door opens.

"Dex," Backup says with a warmth that reaches every part of his face but his eyes. "What can I help you with?"

It's exactly this sort of thing, D thinks irritably. Sure, he himself is insincerely polite all the time, but somehow that's just different, in some way. Dex isn't fake, he just…smooths the rough edges of his frustration with people. And he's not here for _help_; as always, B is trying to get the upper hand before the conversation even starts. Which, ok, D also does, but still.

Maybe it just rubs that B is so much better at it. He says,

"I'd like to speak to you privately, since you've got a moment."

"So formal all the time." Backup smiles. "No need to be like that, D. Come right on in."

He's glanced through the doorway before, but never actually been inside. The walls are plastered with pictures: pictures clipped from magazines and books and newspapers, photos, drawings, overlapping so closely that two and a half of the walls are completely covered. As Dex's eyes travel across the monstrous collage, he finds medical diagrams, x-rays, autopsy and crime scene photos, some of them fairly disgusting. But mostly, they're pictures of regular people doing regular things. People playing football, people dancing, people laughing; and faces upon faces, smiling and frowning and shouting and rolling their eyes, some of them abstract and distorted, some not even human, ranging from dolls' empty faces to snarling animal faces.

It's disturbing. Dex can just picture B kneeling on his bed and watching all the unmoving people on his wall, a hungry voyeur to thousands of unwitting strangers. Suddenly the video cameras feel a lot more violating, and he resolves to triple check if they got them all.

What a creep.

He halts in the middle of the room, tearing his eyes away from the collage, as B sits at his desk and picks up a jar of strawberry jam (stolen from the kitchen, no doubt).

"So what is it you've come in all your pomp and circumstance to tell me about?" Backup asks lightly, twisting the lid off of his jam jar and licking it.

"I know what you are."

"What I am?" the older boy repeats, setting the now-clean lid on his desk and smiling like Dex has told a joke. "Am I to understand you're finally coming to terms with the fact that I'm the superior successor?"

"Don't kid yourself." He pauses to make sure Backup is actually paying attention to him, and he says, "You're a sociopath."

The other boy doesn't even blink, just sticks a spoon in his jam jar and scoops out a dripping gob of the stuff. "Oh?"

"You display all the classic symptoms," D forges on, ticking them off on his fingers. "Narcissism, manipulation, causing feelings of guilt in others. Complete lack of remorse or attachment."

"Now, that's not very nice, Dex," Backup says, waving his sticky spoon at him. "This all sounds a lot like conjecture and just plain insults to me. And anyway," his mouth smiles in isolation, clashing with his black-ice eyes, "even if it wasn't, what of it?"

Dex frowns. It's obvious, isn't it? "The brass couldn't possibly keep you in the running if they knew."

"Why not? L has to be objective in his treatment of a case. Sounds to me like all those extra feelings would get in the way, don't you think?"

"L stands for justice. He's there to _protect_ people, something you could never grasp."

The spoon squelches nastily as B stirs it around in the jam jar. "According to the script Mr. Wammy gave you, yes. I've met L and you haven't. Perhaps I understand him a little better than you do."

Dex's eyes narrow at the suggestion that Mr. W might not have been entirely open with him. "I don't expect that someone like you really understands other human beings, Backup."

"Oh?" Backup says, rising suddenly and setting the jar down. He's a few inches taller, but D holds his ground unflinchingly as the older boy approaches, far too close for comfort. "And so why are you here, telling me all of this? Surely you have some plan of action, that all of this is leading to. What exactly is it that you think you can do to me? Why not go to Witterson?"

Dex doesn't have an answer. Somehow this isn't quite going how he quite envisioned it. In books, once a criminal was identified, well—the identification _was_ the battle. Once the bad guy was confronted with the truth, that was the end of it. But Backup doesn't seem alarmed or surprised at all.

"You don't have to tell me, Dexie, I know," he says, circling him. Dex turns on his heel, wary of letting the older boy get behind him. He doesn't like the patronizing note in his voice. "You're not a tattler, because you want people to recognize _your_ authority. You think you could handle this all by yourself, and that going to someone who actually has a say in what goes on around here would be a sign of weakness."

"I'm not as powerless as you seem to think," D retorts, but he's stalling for time, time to reassess the situation. The older boy's eyes have always had an unnerving effect, blacker than black holes and somehow disengaged from the rest of his face; but now there's a scary glint in them, the same look of calculating interest they get when he's slicing animals open in the bio lab.

"Do you mean all those kids who like to hide behind you when they're feeling threatened?" Backup laughs. "The only people who listen to you are little boys and girls who are too weak to make decisions for themselves."

"I plan to discuss it with Mr. W," Dex backtracks, keeping his voice level.

"Liar," B says calmly. "You wouldn't have confronted me first, if that were true. And it would be a wasted effort. Nobody would believe you. Mr. W picked me before you, didn't he now? It would be your word against mine, and Witterson adores me. Besides, doing that now would be admitting you couldn't handle the situation like you thought you could. You're not going to tell anyone."

"If Mr. W thinks you're so great, then why did he think he had to keep looking once he found you, Backup?" Dex snaps, stung.

"Oh, Dexie," B shakes his head, tsking. "Now that was _very_ unkind."

Before he can react, Backup flips him around by the shoulder, shoves him face-down on the bed, and clamps the pillow over his head.

Choking on his own shout of surprise, Dex struggles, to no effect.

"I know exactly what _you_ are, _D_," he can hear him say conversationally through the smothering, musty darkness. "I know what you want, I know what you're scared of. You're a little child playing white knight, trying to champion a society that tossed you around like rubbish in the pathetic hope that someday, maybe, if you work hard enough and prove yourself, it will come to respect you. You try to take control because you've never had control of your own life, and you can't bear to be helpless. I wonder how this must feel, right now? I'd love to know. Why don't you tell me."

The weight lifts slightly from the back of his head, letting in a crack of light and a rush of cool air. He gasps, breath cutting through him like a cold knife. One breath, two, and then he twists, trying to wrench away from the psycho's grasp and kick him in the knee.

"I'm sure you know that's not the answer I was looking for, little knight," Backup says with disappointed sweetness, then smashes his face back into the mattress.

The smart thing to do would be to scream for help, but the idea is almost as unbearable as the threat of being suffocated to death, and surely Backup doesn't think he could get away with—? Scrabbling frantically at the pillow, Dex attempts to elbow his tormentor, and meets nothing but air. B laughs.

"You're not nearly so much of a nagging bore when fighting for your life, Dexie. We should do this more often. What do you think?"

Another gasp of relief as Backup loosens his hold once more. With as much bile as he can muster and air that he can't afford, Dex spits out, "I'm not scared of you, Backup!"

He cries out in pain as the older boy slams him down again. His skull is being crushed in a vise of stuffy heat and cotton-muffled malice, throat and chest burning like he's inhaled acid.

"If I hadn't observed otherwise myself I could almost believe that, you do have remarkably weak sense of self-preservation. An extremely stupid trait. I wonder what on earth Mr. W saw in you that made up for it. I certainly haven't seen it," Backup muses. "Anyway, even if you weren't lying, I wouldn't have to do anything to _you_, Dixie Cup. You could never be a threat to anyone, even if you weren't such a lame pretender, because you obligingly create vulnerabilities for yourself by taking weaker, even more pathetic people under your flimsy protection. Children are so _fragile!_" He punctuates this with a vicious thrust down on the pillow, making stars explode in the tangle-edged blackness crawling over Dex's eyes.

His head is starting to throb from the oxygen deprivation. As the seconds pound by D thinks in growing panic that maybe Backup actually _is_ crazy enough to murder him right here and now. "You can't be there every moment for them. You can't protect them all. If I'm really what you say, you shouldn't dare play this game with me, because you can't possibly win. You have too much to lose."

"Leave them out of it!" he wants to shout, but all that comes out is a muffled whimper. Desperate, he tries to buck up with the last of his strength.

Then just like that, the suffocating weight is gone. Backup steps neatly aside so that Dex sends himself tumbling to the floor on his back, sobbing for breath.

"My, my," Backup says, eyes glittering as he looks down at him. "That didn't go as you planned, did it."

"Leave them alone," Dex rasps as soon as he has the oxygen for it.

Backup laughs as the younger boy scrambles dizzily to his feet. "Oh, don't be so serious. You're such a prudish bore. Learn to take a joke. This is all hypothetical. You're not really hurt. You won't even have a mark."

No, no marks. No proof. Panting, Dex simply glares.

"I'm glad we had this little chat," Backup says cheerfully, ruffling his hair. He ducks away automatically, cheeks burning in humiliation. "I feel like we both understand each other so much better. Run along, now, and go play king of your little castle, Danny-boy."

And before he can retort, Dex finds himself in the hall with the door snicking neatly shut behind him.

For a stifling moment he's completely beside himself with fury and mortification and no small amount of shock. He hasn't accomplished anything, only made things worse—and even knowing that Backup was deliberately needling him for a reaction, several of those needles stuck deep.

And—'_Danny-boy'_? Is it just another stupid nickname meant to irritate him, chosen at random, or could Backup actually—

There are no random accidents, here in the House. He _knows_. But how—?

Gritting his teeth, Dex sets off down the hall for his own room, fists clenched and determined to resist the prickle of threatening tears. He's _not_ a helpless child. He's not _any_ of those things Backup said. He's not going to give his jibes any credence, not going to give that evil git the pleasure of knowing he's gotten to him. And even if Backup has gone through his records, why should he care? He has nothing to hide.

But it's all lies, isn't it.

And as though all of it weren't bad enough, as he rounds the last corner he nearly runs into the last—well, second-to-last—person he would ever want to see in this state.

"Whoa, what the heck happened to you?" Fallon asks, too surprised to laugh for a moment. But then he does, of course, and it burns like alcohol poured into a cut. "You get in a fight or something?"

"Nothing. Nothing happened. I'm _fine_," Dex snaps, jerking his door open.

"Well, aren't we touchy this eveni—"

He slams the door in Fallon's face. Leaning against it and squeezing his eyes shut, Dex presses his hands over his mouth. He's determined not to cry, but just in case. The only thing worse would be for anyone to hear him.


	21. Mirror

**: Mirror**

Mirrors mesmerized him.

It was one of only two things he couldn't stop himself from doing, once his attention was caught—looking at mirrors, that is.

The other was eating jam. After the lid was popped, B was always hard pressed to stop gorging on the stuff until the jar was completely clean, clinking and scraping away at the bottom corners with a spoon until the noise drove Alt up the wall. Even if he wanted to stop, the fact that it aggravated the other boy was all the more incentive to keep at it. There was nothing quite as amusing as getting Alt all riled up, then twisting it all around so that by some arcane, ridiculous illogic it was A's own fault he was annoyed. It was truly remarkable how easily the other boy fell for it, every single time.

Mirrors, though.

Reflective surfaces would catch his gaze—windows, the sides of cars, metal plaques, computer screens, even spoons and the kitchen counters. He couldn't help but stare at mirrors: to pause, and watch himself, somehow fascinated by the movement of his mouth and eyebrows, by the shape of his own eyes.

(They were narrow, sharply present, nothing like L's. Black like obsidian, rather than black like slate as the detective's were. The savant had strange eyes, somehow always wide and empty yet perceiving, trained as much on the thoughts behind them as on the world around them and therefore absent; a powerful telescope slightly out of focus.

Well, L couldn't see as well as he did.)

There were no mirrors in the dormitories. Probably Marta never thought them necessary. She didn't much believe in vanity.

But, B would think, rolling his eyes at himself in the bathroom mirror, vanity had utterly nothing to do with it.

There was this saying that eyes were the windows to the human soul. Beyond thought that was stupid.

For one thing, he wasn't convinced of the existence of anything resembling a soul. Humans were machines that acted in predictable ways for their survival. The things Empaths called the soul, Beyond called evolutionary mistakes and weakness.

Perhaps it was plausible that _he_ had something more, some hard-to-define _self_ that elevated him from mere chemicals and juices and patterns, something soul-like, thought certainly not destined for judgment. After all, he could see the red letters and numbers. Clearly that meant he had something special. But he had never seen such a thing in anyone else.

Back on the subject of eyes.

If anything, Beyond thought eyes were the most incongruous part of the human body. Disconnected from the flesh surrounding them, like periscopes from the brain, encased in an odd little suitcase of skin, rolling and moving freely, without conscious direction. They moved and twitched, and the pupils expanded and contracted, but other than that, eyes were static. Eyes didn't communicate anything. Eyes didn't express anything; they were merely silent observers of everything around them. He daydreamed, sometimes, when watching the Empaths, about digging them out of their sockets, to see just how _soulful_ eyes could be if isolated, suspended, in a jar or under bright lamps for observation.

The muscles around the eye, now those, Beyond thought, those expressed things. Posture, stance, tenseness and relaxedness, tilts of the head and the raising and lowering of the brows, the minute changes of degree of the upper and lower eyelids, the set of the mouth. Empaths showed their weakness, their so-called _souls_, in all of those things.

And so Beyond practiced.

It was cruel and utterly unfair that Empaths seemed to have some sort of mental cheatsheet for making facial expressions. It was, he supposed, to make up for their failings—guilt, and affection, and all the other emotions that induced them to do irrational things and play right into his hands. He only rarely wondered if he were missing out on some desirable thing, in not sharing those sentiments. But Beyond resented the fact that the miniscule muscle movements simply pulled at their faces with some difficult-to-define stamp of sincerity and no apparent effort at all, whereas he would have to drill himself for hours, days, sometimes weeks to get some subtle expression quite right.

Other times, when his face started to feel stiff, muscles aching from pressing themselves into unfamiliar positions, Beyond would squint up at the mirror above his head, as though if he looked hard enough, he might see his own name and lifespan. Not that the name would be very useful, since he already knew that. But the numbers.

F had taught them all a game where everyone stuck a playing card to their foreheads, and they took bets based on whether or not they thought their own card was higher than the others. (G had won three times in a row, at which point F threw a temper tantrum and refused to play anymore. Beyond was certain he could easily have bluffed out the other boy—but G's cards had proved higher every time. He had probably fixed the deck.) Beyond hadn't seen the purpose of the game, other than it being an opportunity for the Empaths to practice their paltry skills at bluffing. That feeling, though, of knowing something about everyone else but not knowing it about himself—he knew that feeling all too well.

Perhaps, he thought in occasional fancy, perhaps it meant he'd be immortal.

But he always came back to practice. Being extraordinary was so very, very easy for him, but being ordinary—well, that was a trick, now, wasn't it? It wasn't as though there were one sort of ordinary. Similar, yes, eerily similar, yet all the Empaths seemed to have their own variations, their own versions, all of which were more believable than his. He practiced all of them—Concord's deer-in-headlights stare, Mr. W's amused neutrality, Gao's sharkish grin, Addison's wry smile, Alt's hurt surprise.

And L, yes, he practiced L the most, because that's who he was supposed to be, wasn't it now. When the curtain rose, he would need to be ready for showtime. Of course, it would no longer be the show Mr. W had ordered—no, no, L had ruined all of that.

Even back then, he'd got in the habit of taking long showers, so it wasn't suspicious when he closed the door and left the water running for half an hour at a time. The staff were so eager to give in to, even encourage their compulsions. Perched naked on the bathroom counter, balancing precariously on his toes, Beyond would practice. A bit of flour from the kitchen, charcoals from the art station. White face, black rings under his eyes. He could pretend his wavy blond hair was black, deliberately ruffling it up, making it stick in odd directions. L had a tendency to stare blankly when he was thinking, gnawing on his thumb. Face relaxed, eyes wide and round, focused on nothing.

Sometimes Beyond thought he did L's own expressions better than L did.

Then, that day. The knock, the dull voice, with just a hint of irritation. L had been waiting for ten minutes, he needed to use the toilet. Why was Backup taking so long. Hurry up. Dismissive, annoyed. Wanting Beyond out of his way, as usual.

It was L's fault, he ruined everything. He should have been satisfied with Beyond's polite reply to wait just a moment, he was almost done.

He should never have opened the door.

It was a long moment, the savant and the psychopath locking black-ringed eyes, taking stock of the situation. For a brief instant Beyond thought he saw a flash of something—alarm, perhaps, a twitch of an eyelid—but it was gone before he could remember it to practice for later.

"I told Watari this successor idea was ridiculous," L muttered to himself with an irritated sigh, then left, closing the door behind him. And then he _really_ left, going away to work on a case in Hong Kong, and not coming back after as he usually did. Nor after the next case, nor the next.

Beyond locked the door now, when he was practicing.


End file.
